trout

Elena's Feet

Jonathan Larson

as we were walking down the Ala Wai
your feet were wrapped up in pink leather straps
the kind that always reminded me of poodles, and I laughed
at you
for getting all dolled up for Waikiki
as if Waikiki
wouldn't fuck you otherwise
as if any part of the very heart of Waikiki
could give a shit about your beautiful, your perfect, your soft painted toes
could see the wit when you wrinkled your nose
and grinned where street light lamps lit rows of teeth like porcelain
no, Waikiki had shit on you
had lines of history writ on you, but
this fishnet town's got history too
and you could see it ripple
just beneath the neon blues
as we were walking down the Ala Wai
could see it gather on the banks in city-soaked refuse
floating lopsided
as the bellies of fish
as the cages of shopping carts half-sunken which rust
in the bright light reflections of this long poisoned ditch
so we kept walking down the Ala Wai
kept looking for the car that I had lost in this jungle of broken concrete
‘til your bubblegum feet got stuck to street stained trash
and I, as a habit; I'd started to laugh
your left shoe was broken on a Bazooka Joe stash
so you inherited my slippers, and all of the drag that comes with them
my comical walk, and the tendency to talk in loose rhythm
you were spinning
with a flutter of rubber on sidewalk
where the officer nightshifts provide chalk outlines
for the meth-dredged bodies draining
into Waikiki
Waikiki, the pusher
Waikiki, the drunk
in shattered, price-tagged pieces, plastic thirteen dollar junk
and you, with your second hand shoes and a dress
cut short like lit fuse, dazzling; like emergency
like petals of a flower held between two books to press
your looks confessed in glances: perfumed skin, and loneliness
and then you danced along in front of me
your feet, like hungry honey bees
tracing out your map, your trap, your childish tease
as we were walking down the Ala Wai
you touched me like rainfall
with fingers that drained all that liquor
that wasted expression, you blushing at me
like gasoline runoff caught fire midstream
your lips, your skin, your goddamned feet
how you were dressed in trim to match these breathless tourist streets
you touched me like hibiscus
soft petals betraying just what this is
this fantasy, this carnival
the streets named for princesses
and you with your poodle shoes
slung limply from your Jäger shot hands
the ceded lands bleeding dry, bleeding
as we were, walking down the Ala Wai
there were bright metal street signs: Bad Water – Don't Drink
but when we found the car, you grabbed my sleeve
“one more”, you said beneath a batting eyelash plea
“there're bars out here for miles, I'll get in most clubs free” and
I looked at you with your chest wrapped in pink
the skin of your breasts rise and sink from your breath
hot on my neck; on my lips and the beat of my heart
keeping pace with your feet as they skidder stepped
cigarettes smoldering heat in the dark
and your beautiful, beautiful toes
clasping slippers too big as you posed dangerously
and I said, “get in the car, Darlin'
get in the car and off this street
we've been walking for forever
and your feet
are killing me”