{"id":1684,"date":"2012-07-18T20:09:13","date_gmt":"2012-07-18T20:09:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1684"},"modified":"2012-07-19T11:51:49","modified_gmt":"2012-07-19T11:51:49","slug":"pamela-clarke-vandall-712","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/pamela-clarke-vandall-712\/","title":{"rendered":"Pamela Clarke Vandall, 7\/12"},"content":{"rendered":"

New Shoes<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He worked overtime to buy me shoes.<\/p>\n

One pair of black patent leather to stretch<\/p>\n

a year.\u00a0 The shoes gleamed a pitch black gloss.<\/p>\n

The sheen of military caps marching<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in a Labour day parade.\u00a0 I wanted<\/span><\/p>\n

to run with feet bare as plums in rain,<\/span><\/p>\n

but he’d have none of that.\u00a0 He told me<\/span><\/p>\n

he walked in his grandfather’s shoes.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They had no soles, were big, and his toes<\/span><\/p>\n

flapped like shutters in winter.\u00a0 My shoes<\/span><\/p>\n

never danced, jumped or climbed.\u00a0 They were ladies<\/span><\/p>\n

shoes fastened to place.\u00a0 They dangled once<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

from Murphy’s dock.\u00a0 One shoe dropped and cracked<\/span><\/p>\n

ripples across the polished surface.<\/span><\/p>\n

All the way home I thought of my father’s<\/span><\/p>\n

frost bitten toe, purple and swollen, dragged<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

through snow.\u00a0 I heard the hiss of leather<\/span><\/p>\n

as it slid through the loops of his pants.<\/span><\/p>\n

A lawn sprinkler that snapped and spit over<\/span><\/p>\n

the yards calloused and yellowing grass.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My shoes had black leather straps that buckled<\/span><\/p>\n

like his belt on my backside.\u00a0 The pain<\/span><\/p>\n

was different, unlike bare feet.\u00a0 With shoes,<\/span><\/p>\n

there was wiggle room.\u00a0 Not much–but some.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dirty Poem<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She wrote<\/span><\/p>\n

a dirty poem<\/span><\/p>\n

on a napkin<\/span><\/p>\n

in blood<\/span><\/p>\n

red ink,<\/span><\/p>\n

stuffed it<\/span><\/p>\n

in her pocket<\/span><\/p>\n

so no one<\/span><\/p>\n

would see.<\/span><\/p>\n

She washed it<\/span><\/p>\n

in Sunlight<\/span><\/p>\n

soap, water,<\/span><\/p>\n

and threw it<\/span><\/p>\n

in the dryer<\/span><\/p>\n

on high heat.<\/span><\/p>\n

It came out<\/span><\/p>\n

a little soiled<\/span><\/p>\n

but still there.<\/span><\/p>\n

She could not<\/span><\/p>\n

wipe it clean.<\/span><\/p>\n

Permanent<\/span><\/p>\n

marker, stained red,<\/span><\/p>\n

in memory.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Stinging Nettles<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When I was twelve<\/span><\/p>\n

I sat in a circle<\/span><\/p>\n

with three girls naked.<\/span><\/p>\n

I listened as they described<\/span><\/p>\n

our pubes to the boys.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mandy had a bush, Pat a hedge,<\/span><\/p>\n

Dawn a forest, and I bore a tree.<\/span><\/p>\n

One single tree in a thicket.<\/span><\/p>\n

I crossed my limbs while giggles<\/span><\/p>\n

burned me into a red<\/span><\/p>\n

Japanese maple, barren<\/span><\/p>\n

and bald in mountain snow.<\/span><\/p>\n

I could feel it root<\/span><\/p>\n

behind my eyes, sting<\/span><\/p>\n

a rash of freckles<\/span><\/p>\n

over my inflamed, raw face.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I think of my friends now,<\/span><\/p>\n

I imagine a patch of nettles<\/span><\/p>\n

that moss their crotch.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hairs like hypodermic needles<\/span><\/p>\n

that grow coarser, sharper,<\/span><\/p>\n

and always need shaving.<\/span><\/p>\n

I told myself then<\/span><\/p>\n

that the tree<\/span><\/p>\n

was a half-hearted pine<\/span><\/p>\n

at the fringe of a forest.<\/span><\/p>\n

They’re rare, grow slow,<\/span><\/p>\n

and have the hardest wood of all.<\/span><\/p>\n

In winter, they drop pine cones<\/span><\/p>\n

shaped like hearts.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Storage<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You left me,<\/span><\/p>\n

a child on a guest bed<\/span><\/p>\n

divided between two<\/span><\/p>\n

old war trunks<\/span><\/p>\n

in grandma’s spare room.<\/span><\/p>\n

Aloe, jade and prayer<\/span><\/p>\n

plants perish on its leather<\/span><\/p>\n

strapped trim. On the wall<\/span><\/p>\n

is a freezer that hums,<\/span><\/p>\n

rattles and flickers<\/span><\/p>\n

a goldfish glow.<\/span><\/p>\n

This is my room<\/span><\/p>\n

while my parents<\/span><\/p>\n

figure out<\/span><\/p>\n

how much I’m worth.<\/span><\/p>\n

I sleep with the dead<\/span><\/p>\n

fish, pigs, and cattle,<\/span><\/p>\n

caught in the middle<\/span><\/p>\n

of two wars and winter.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0Pamela\u2019s poems have appeared in Bare Hands, Poetry Bus, The First Cut, Ginosko, West of West Review, Outburst and Island Writer. She was shortlisted for the Fermoy Poetry Festival and has poems forthcoming in Tree Killer Ink, Gargoyle Magazine and Silver Bow’s Poetry Anthology.\u00a0 She\u2019s a member of the Gabriola Poetry Society and resides there with her husband and 2 children.<\/em><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

New Shoes   He worked overtime to buy me shoes. One pair of black patent leather to stretch a year.\u00a0 The shoes gleamed a pitch black gloss. The sheen of military caps marching   in a Labour day parade.\u00a0 I wanted to run with feet bare as plums in rain, but he’d have none of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1684","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nPamela Clarke Vandall, 7\/12 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/pamela-clarke-vandall-712\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Pamela Clarke Vandall, 7\/12 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"New Shoes   He worked overtime to buy me shoes. 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