the red shoes

I tie on the red shoes,

not mine, but an 

heirloom,

a burden,

a gift.

they pierce like glass

but I know it is my turn

to wear them, know

why they are red—

the blood of women who

came before me.

my great-grandmother,

abandoned because she dared to love

a man from the tribes, to defile her

white body with his brown skin,

to give birth to their child, a mixture

of that which should have never existed.

she was alone with the baby when they killed him.

my grandmother, 

who works a nine-hour shift, longer

than his, earning less

than him, and still manages to

cook dinner when he comes home,

packs his lunch, and

still she gets up

when he cries, “I’m hungry.”

she had dreams to go to new york that she never told anyone.

another grandmother,

raped, pregnant, and married off at sixteen,

abandoned by her first three husbands,

alone, afraid, hateful.

she says we grandkids are her only joy in life.

my mom,

force-fed pills because she

refused to be silent—fed till

her eyes went black and her

ribs began to show beneath

her shirt, till she considered

suicide and instead

killed herself

by giving herself over to a man. 

she dropped out of school, dedicated herself to domesticity.

she had dreams of culinary school in paris. 

but she got new dreams and

she became the vice president of her company,

making more than her husband,

despite the wage gap.

for their little rebellions—

boldly loving,

“forgetting” desserts in his lunchbox,

secretly hating,

angry, motherly, loving protection,

flushing pills,

getting a college degree,

continuing to dream,

accomplishing dreams,

for still being here.

for what they did,

and what they still cannot do,

I wear the shoes,

lace up the red ties,

and march.