Silver Shoes

This morning, she screamed so hard and long, kicking and rolling on the floor, that she tore her dress in two—a gaping hole between top and bottom, another along the side  (we float between the head and legs, the boat-pelvis ferrying us between). Change me, she cried. Get me another dress. But she didn’t want the gray one or the red. Want the pink sweater (she threw the pink bottle across the room because she wanted the green). Ignore her, says my husband. He wants to lock her outside. Can we gag her? he says. Are you serious? I say, and the horror is I’m never sure. Maybe take them for a walk, I say. I’ll abandon the stroller and run, he replies.  So I offer her the grey skirt and black shirt and her pink cardigan. The skirt is too big and falls. I tighten it. Socks. Silver shoes. I’m so beautiful, she says, clicking them together. Look how beautiful I am.

Batnadiv HaKarmi is a writer and visual artist who currently resides in Jerusalem. Her work has been published in Poet Lore, Radar Poetry, and most recently in Belmont Story Review. A graduate of the graduate writing program in Bar Ilan University, she is the recipient of the Andrea Moria Prize for Poetry, and was shortlisted for the Brideport Prize. Her work can be followed on and on Instagram @batnadiv_art

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