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.