I was curious about the guard when she came over.
There was a gap between her teeth, coffee-skinned,
in museum guard clothes.
Around us the monstrosities of race, freestanding
caricatures of the enslaved with robotic nerves –
a man strives after a severed limb; a girl whispers to a doll.
The guard asked if my shoes were Mary Janes.
They were cute, she said, the shiny black texture,
the heel thick as a potato. Retro, updated.
And look at the platform, I said. For all the floors
she stands on – wood, marble, slate – a thick sole
provides resistance. The man without his arms
was still grinding.
The artist said she wants to create a better world.
I rolled a scene where I gave her my shoes; only I
was the hero. Instead, I smiled; she smiled.
Survival of the human face. Maybe
she’ll come across the store in her travels.