Shoes for Mother Teresa (Morgan Ray)

 In the half light of a gray San Francisco day 

she walked in asking for Pietro, the shoemaker. 

She wanted to thank him for cladding 

her Missionaries of Charity all these years; remaking 

their Dollar Store flip-flops into substantial footwear. 

An entourage of young nuns wearing thin white saris trimmed in blue 

flitted about her like excited birds.  She was a small woman 

but not frail and when she entered the tiny shop, 

time paused for a moment.  She took Pietro's worn hand 

in hers, and I knew I was in the presence 

of not one saint, but two. 

A fragrance of compassion surrounded me and 

when I looked into her eyes, I saw a little mystery 

and a little mourning.  Pietro knelt, 

not in supplication, but insistence on tracing her feet 

to make a pattern for sandals. 

They were not delicate feet, but sturdy 

with the texture of well-worn leather; feet belonging to a soul 

who had walked barefoot under a waning Calcutta moon, 

laying hands upon the dying and the destitute 

until darkness faded. 

She stepped onto the paper, her whole body 

luminous, Pietro gently pressing her foot, 

outlining the shape of it 

with a pencil he took from behind his ear, 

carefully tracing curve each toe like a scribe 

recording an encounter with the divine. 

--Morgan Ray, Shoes for Mother Teresa

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