by Marie-Andrée Auclaire

One look at them

and Gustav names the maker.

He looks up from her shoes

crooks a smile and says

Hand-stitched, aren’t they?


She does not say anything.

She just stepped in a thin puddle

and felt a wet kiss on her right sole

a kiss that focused her attention:

the top leather she buffs

with cerise and mauve polish

to give a rich Burgundy blood

to the original red,

the supporting soles

she forgot.


All day, she keeps her feet

flat on the office tiles.

She gazes at her colleagues,

Sue with the clever make-up

what bruises, what tears underneath?

Pam, her fear of aging pricked

with botox in her cheeks

and Jean and Kim, each of them

with a brave face and a secret to shield.

Her shoes today are remnants

from a more prosperous era.


She decides just for today

that she’ll agree faces need saving,

more than the lonely hurt that they cover.

About the Author

Marie-Andrée Auclair’s poems have found homes in many print and online publications in Canada, the USA, UK, Ireland and Australia; to name a few of the publications: Bywords (Canada); Poetry Pacific (Canada); The Phoenix (US); Structo (UK). Her first chapbook, Contrails, was released by In/Words Magazine and Press/Ottawa and she is working on another. In addition to writing, she enjoys hiking, photography, traveling and adding to her cooking repertoire after each trip. She lives in Ontario, Canada.

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