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| Under The Spell of Shoe |  | |  | |
by Liam Rector | |
I’ve made a point, over the years, perhaps even a moral point,
Of never having sex with any of the wives of my best men friends.
The closest I came
Was once when I was living alone, house-sitting a Jamesian
House in Chevy Chase, and one of my best friends and his wife
Were spending the weekend
And they went up to bed. The woman left her pair of shoes on
The floor, on the rug, and I was quite stoned, and I wandered over
And picked up
One of the shoes, and I held the shoe, and, staring deeply into what
I took to be the essence of my friend’s wife as she embodied the shoe
And the shoe embodied her,
I imagined her and me fucking each other senseless. It was
Great, and it did no real nor lasting damage to the marriage,
As far as I could tell. |
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Liam Rector is the 1998 recipient of the Pen/ New England Award.
His first book of poems was The Sorrow of Architecture, and he was
editor of The Day I Was Older: On the Poetry of Donald Hall. He has
received fellowships in poetry from the Guggenheim Foundation and the
National Endowment for the Arts, and he has administered literary
programs at the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Academy of American
Poets, Associated Writing Programs, and elsewhere. He has taught at
Goucher College, George Mason University, and Phillips Academy and is
currently the Director of the Writing Seminars at Bennington College.
He took graduate degrees from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins and
the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard. He now resides in
Massachusetts.
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