Colleen Harris
Funeral Shoes
for Shara
Your dress is black—dark, plain, cut
below the knee for the modesty
expected in a Southern church,
covering most of your tattoos.
Standing barefoot before the closet,
one more absurd decision to make.
You would go barefoot, you would go
naked if you could, the way she walked
out of the shower, unabashed,
toward the dresser with less care
than when you stood over each other
in fraternity house basement bathrooms,
safely pissing by turns and checking
that the rum hadn’t smudged your red lips.
The closet looms. Fifty-two pairs
to choose from: sedate Mary Janes
somber in black, platform hooker-heels
refusing all reality in purple and green,
sneakers, mules in classic brown leather,
ballet flats in a pink delicate as new skin.
Blue, red, leopard print, colors wheel
before your eyes, they blur like lights,
like central Kentucky college party nights.
Finally you choose—dusty purple
and yellow, with black leather bows
and witch-point toes, a muted whimsy
her contrary spirit would have loved,
would have stolen at the first chance.
The drive to Louisville takes years.
The casket is closed. There is an easel,
a poster-sized photo of her smiling face,
still alive, she could walk in any moment.
You walk to an open pew in low heels—
click clack, come back, click clack.
Hobbyhopper
First it was Red Heart yarn, when her mother taught
her to crochet. Hours walking craft aisles, choosing
colors, shades of olive, blues, and plums, she sought
every hue along the haunted spectrum of bruising.
After that, quilting. Ignoring fiscal sense, she bought
a Singer sewing machine, carry-case, sharp notions,
fat quarters of fabric in red, gold, and grey. She ought
to start small, stick to one hobby, but once set in motion
she is a menace, a fanatic, a woman demon-possessed
to find something—anything—to bring her mind rest.
Christmas Cake
Pine Knot, Kentucky
When the cake tin tipped
landing icing-side down
on the Tahoe carpet,
I ducked my head,
waited for my father’s rage
to spill from your lips.
Instead, you laughed,
said it would make the dogs happy,
and brought the hounds out
to sup on the sweet mess.
I knew then you would ask,
that I would say yes.
We arrived late, small
store-bought cake in hand,
sugar still on our shoes,
laughter like champagne
rising from our throats.
Colleen S. Harris holds an MFA in Writing from Spalding University and works as a university library dean in Texas. Author of four poetry books and four chapbooks, her most recent collections include The Light Becomes Us (Main Street Rag, 2025), Toothache in the Bone (boats against the current, 2025), The Girl and the Gifts (Bottlecap, 2025), and These Terrible Sacraments (Doubleback 2019; Bellowing Ark, 2010). Her poems appear in Berkeley Poetry Review, The Louisville Review, and more than 80 others. Follow her writing at https://colleensharris.com
