HIGH ART

CHRISTOPHER MCDANIEL

I saw something today. A picture or rather a portrait—a large ad. Brown, women’s boots modeled up two ankles, crossed with intent. The scar from her falling hair straightener, cut calluses from her shoes, her favorite color nail polish, two-stripe high-heel tan lines, a thin anklet, old, and unseen, and track marks way against the grain.

My handprints are fresh around her ankles, redressing her tights first, tying her laces with my teeth, crossing her boots before the door. How do I look, she speaks peeking down at me.