by Laura LeHew


in memory of Paul O. Williams


it didn't matter

people thought you were his daughter

that you always exclaimed we're "just friends"


it didn't matter so long as

your feet were bound tight

in 4" leather high heels


as you stood and stood

and stood

your feet throbbing to be released

it didn't matter so long as at the end of the night he could

walk you to your apartment could

grasp your calf

slip your shoes off


at at time—strong

hands stroking



into your skin his thumb deeper

into the points of your soul



Laura LeHew loves zombies, Dexter, and Anne Carson [in a purely platonic-poetic way]; she is hoping for a non-CGI comeback of Werewolves; she has one husband, seven cats [Tessa, Mr. Socks, Baby, and Dorian (yes he is grey), and the Army of Darkness (Raven, Shadow and Smoke)]; she never sleeps. Laura is the editor of Uttered Chaos.


This poem originally appeared in issue 1.