MY SHOES

My Shoes
by Charles Simic

Shoes, secret face of my inner life:Two gaping toothless mouths,Two partly decomposed animal skinsSmelling of mice-nests.
My brother and sister who died at birthContinuing their existence in you,Guiding my lifeToward their incomprehensible innocence.
What use are books to meWhen in you it is possible to readThe Gospel of my life on earthAnd still beyond, of things to come?
I want to proclaim the religionI have devised for your perfect humilityAnd the strange church I am buildingWith you as the altar.
Ascetic and maternal, you endure:Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,With your mute patience, formingThe only true likeness of myself.