When life was wearing my son down,
he asked a question I couldn’t answer,
a thing I had never learned:
“How do I learn to love myself?”
I knew Joe knew so I asked him.

“Took a year off just for myself,” he answered.
“After they ripped my gin-grieving soul
from the heap of flesh and bones they found
on a chester county street corner
and hung it to dry in an intensive care unit,
I went fishing by myself
and sometimes danced with light-hearted folks.

I bought myself a pair of shoes that fit.
First time in my life shoes didn’t pinch or flop around,
put spring in my first Twelve Steps.

I consorted with my mirror’d image;
found some good thing in that unfamiliar face.

At night on my knees, I thank God for the day
then throw those spit-polished black shoes under the bed
so I’ll have to get on my knees again in the morning.

And I stay clear of booze and box-stuffing people
who can kill the will in an instant with a word or a glance,
who misjudge the spring in my step
that only comes from shoes that do not pinch.”

—Polly Ann Brown