A Meditation on Shoes

I have decided to be brave and post a draft of the poem I wrote today after witnessing the shoe memorial for the first time. For those of you that don't know, the Shoes on the Danube Promenade consists of 60 pairs of iron shoes on the banks on the Danube. It is meant to commemorate the victims of the Arrow Cross (the Hungarian Facist Party) who were lined up on the banks of the river and shot, after first having to remove their shoes, which were valuable at the time.

The Shoe Memorial

At the Danube, we huddle in the wind
to shield the tiny flame.
Wax drips, hardens, yellow sticks to bronze.

One shoe waits alone,
its mate now buried beneath the river's swell.

A child sings shrill, clear notes,
her voice drifting atop the gentle waves.
Bare feet tear water into foam.

A ringing shot.
A moment of stillness
Taut as a tightrope.
A prayer stretched over an echo.


And me? I wear size 8 and a half.
25 dollar knock-offs.
Strings frayed and muddy.
One shoe untied.

A wilting dandelion dangles from a boot.
A flash of yellow amidst surrounding gray.
Light bursting into flicker.

We disperse.
I look back to see the flame, wavering
as the wind sweeps in again.

We shall now drink a cup of coffee
and talk about the rain. 





-Abby-