Leg Warmers

R.I.P., Auntie Margie, 
you would have loved Louboutin.

Your grand niece and I shopped Nordstrom today, 
a favorite haunt of your mother's, we all know.
Specifically, Salon Shoes, 
because I can't stay away from a good stitch 
and a fine leather, I'm your mother's granddaughter, 
and your niece after all.

A small cocktail table near the elevator
spotlights haute couture pointe shoes in satin. 
The satiny heels caught my eye, 
stopped me in my tracks.

They transport me to childhood stories 
I heard from your sister, my mother. 
She told me with pride, tales of you 
in the late 1970s, fresh out of RISD
sitting hunched over your knitting machine
night after night, day after day
sewing pair after pair after pair 
of leg warmers 
in your wee Queens walk-up,
crafting sets for direct sale 
to Henri Bendel at 10 West 57th Street.

Your first years you spent alone, solo knitting.
You were the breaking crest of
stem steamers scrunched over street clothes;
you were ahead of your time.

Before others made this cultural grand jeté,
You brought the muscle warmth and artistry of 
ballet, dance fashion, to the streets of New York.

Early ones took note, adopted 
your transgressive approach to couture.
And your leg warmers 
were flying, brisé volé, off the shelf at Bendel's.
To the point that your hands seized 
and you needed to solicit another pair 
if you were to continue with this high effort elegance.

Then, with your seamstress assistant — 
a certain someone who'd grow to be 
an inimitable fiber artist on her own right
— you'd prepare the growing pile for distribution.

After a few years of this, your hands rebelled, 
and your designer's dreams brought you elsewhere;
rinse and repeat had lost its luster for you.

But the sewing and the sowing had been done.
While your wares never made you famous, 
your mark is on this earth.
You had an impression on Madonna, 
and Flashdance, and the first half of the 1980s.
From there, your creative stirrings left a grip
from J. Lo to Gaga to Olivia Rodrigo to Zendaya.

And now here, 
I clasp your grand niece's hand,
we peer down, 
take in the trio of Pointe shoe-inspired heels.
Two Louboutins, satin on block heels have 
sparkly on-tone leg warmers attached.
The third is without, done in a lipstick red suede.
All three boast red bottoms, his signature flourish.
And in the lot of them, 
I glimpse the flashy yarn that ties them back to you.




= = = 
I contemplate buying them,
so that I too have a connection back to your mad genius.
I flip them over, hold shiny red sole in hand,
and spot the label maker price tag that warns:
Seventeen hundred ninety five dollars. 
I carefully place the piece of art back on the table
and decide to pen you a poem instead.