Letter from Lorelai

Rebecca Elmore


This is just to tell you

that I have eaten

your favorite

black pointy-toe wedges. 


When you left for work this morning,

I snuck back into your room

determined to teach you a lesson

about depriving me of sleep. 


Lying helpless on the floor,

they were easy prey. 

Nana always tells you,

“Pick up your shoes off the floor”

and “Make sure you close your doors.”

But you never listen. 


They were tasty

and satisfied my craving

for Italian leather and synthetic materials.  

The heel, a delectable morsel of cork. 


I enjoyed my feast uninterrupted

for quite some time

until Nana, noticing the house was quiet,

came in search of me

and caught me.


Why do you look so exasperated? 

It’s not like the time

I plucked the diamond

from your left ear.


Three days later,

after it finally passed,

you went to Steel’s Jewelry

to upgrade to a new pair. 

With screwbacks to be sure. 






You should have known better. 

I am a little girl .  .  .

You claimed it was

to keep me from doing it again.

But I know better:

You just wanted more carats.   


So what’s the judgment? 

Time out?

At easily-five pounds, I easily out-will you. 


You can try, but while you’re doing it,

I’ll be wearing a happy golden smile.