No Soul Is A Shoe by G. Louis Heath

No soul is a shoe, yet we live in shoes of

The mind. That is what I think as I watch

Her walking in the distance on a tightrope

Between shore and sky. I see a scrub jay 

Presiding over a broken branch above our 

Mother’s shoe-grave on the hill just above. 

We buried her shoe with our simple version 

Of a church rite in effigy of her, for only one  

Shoe and no body washed up on the shore, or

At least it was her size and favorite brand. The

Shoe gives us closure as best a factory shoe can. 

A bespoke shoe with monogram could make my

Sister’s mourning walk an easier tightrope to 

Tread. I see her vanishing on the horizon. She 

Says she will never stop looking. Mom must yet 

Breathe somewhere the ocean breezes whispering  

Over her shoe in its makeshift grave on the hill. 

She must still inhale sharp, salt-scented air, not 

Yet be salt unto the sea. I see the sea leaping to

Greet the westering sun of eventide. The scrub 

Jay on the splintered bough above the grave shrieks

Its harsh, piercing cry. I can see my sister no more.

G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University, Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He has published poems in a wide array of journals. His books include Leaves Of Maple and Long Dark River Casino.