By Debadrita Datta
I slip my foot into her shining heels—
a shallow fit, a snapped nail.
Meant for trust fund ankles, it seems.
I sigh and leave for class
in my worn-out slippers.
Emily Dickinson rests under my tongue—
the professor nods, impressed.
I wear a smile
until she speaks of Sylvia Plath.
Her voice, velvet and knowing,
unspools the verses like silk—
and suddenly, the room belongs to her.
At the after-hours library, I listen:
her Oxfords whisper against marble,
grounded, polished, always sure.
At practice, I fill in the gaps—
lift, catch, support.
She lands, satin-footed, a feather.
I am the ground beneath her.
No pressure.
Apollo’s shadow is wide enough
for the ones who stand beneath it.
The evening sky folds itself around me,
I soften at the city’s forgotten corners,
but before I can name them, she appears—
a woman with her world in her arms,
barefoot but unwavering.
She does not look down.
The day settles inside me.
I step in, exhaling the weight at the door.
Bruno stirs at the sound of my sole,
tail thumping, love unmeasured.
I slip off my shoes—
not the finest, not the flashiest.
But they fit.
And maybe, just maybe, I do too.