According to Freud’s observations and analysis of his nephew fantasy-making with a shoe, the fa-da game is the necessary foundational basis by which a child can rightfully count on a parent who leaves for work or an office party or a trip to the Bahamas with her younger lover to eventually return.

The child, controlling the outcome, sees that through simple will and aggression he can force the shoe to go, then facilitate retrieval whenever he so desires. This, according to Freud, makes it easier for the child to accept separation of all kinds. Fa-da is mourning-play.

Hence, in tragedies, shoes play important roles. Actors must think carefully about where to step. Frequently, prints are drawn in light chalk on the stage. No one likes to share a pair. Letters are drawn from their lips, as are knives. When boots find their mark, victims claim the soles.

Children must be encouraged to play fa-da. Freud said so, and he had very healthy relationships. For those of you whose parents have left and never returned, you happen to be screwed, psychologically speaking. Perhaps, as in the most successful tragedies, you should seek revenge.

I graduated grade two. Remember? With the rest of the class.

You sat near the middle of the gymnasium

between a dentist and a mother-to-be. You said I didn’t need to cry

when they called my name. You said Don’t cry. You’re being

honoured. Top of your class. We bought white shoes

and I swayed like chalk, but I didn’t smear your hands or dress.

You switched years. It was difficult to keep up without you dropping

me off on time, the packaged lunches, or the pinched dreams

of your voice. If was difficult to make peace in the principal’s office

or counselor’s armchair–the blackboard traded for a black book,

black file. That woman had some style, the janitor said to me during fire drill.

You had him take our picture on the swings–scoffed

at the lunch lady when your skirt melted away.

And so the cafeteria stopped serving meatloaf and milk. The red-brick building

gave way to portables and a baseball diamond used for frisbee toss.

In study hall I climbed the ropes to the tune of the dunce’s stopwatch

and we cried and cried in dishonour. And I still made it

to the top of the class. It’s just that–

the backpack got too heavy. Loaded down spellers

and dictionaries, pencils and rubbers,

dozens of pairs of scissors.

My timetable full of your fading black hair and brown eyes–your

careless kisses and proud mother fold-out chairs

for all occasions.

I dropped out, but couldn’t stop

graduating. With honours, with distinction, summa cum laude

with a valedictorian’s charismatic dismay–

I said It’s time to move on. Leave this place and become

X times U = Zero ???

Chalk gets into the lungs, circulates. Love pitches its tent

on the railway tracks. Report cards arrive too late.

I climb the rope, sell the dictionaries and the diplomas.

What A + is ever going to tuck me

into bed and hold me tight?

She says it is a trick of every woman

to attract a man by sitting alone in the square,

aloof (in some circumstances even

genuinely suffering) filing her nails.