Marie-Andrée Auclair
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Cartographer
I watch you pencil me supple strokes If, or better, when you want to know someone —you, me— draw a map indefinite frontiers to embrace shifts in promises sketch too meandering veins of navigable waters topographical arteries to contour obstacles mountains, cliffs as necessary overedge to adventures with graphite coloured pens define known bodies landscapes of familiar roadways and barely felt trails through green forests plot paths across untamed land — allow for fence mending — assign hues—a colour scale or two— rainbow insets for legends before spreading an overlay to protect delicate boundaries consider aquarelle after draw-dragging some truths between your designs and mine then, satisfied add India ink. A Girl at the Beach She runs on the wet boundary of lake and shore splashes, a slapping sound a heart-like rhythm faster. We all run young bare feet beat the sand arms beat the air we are birds about to soar on long wings. She halts, screams, hobbles one foot up, dripping blood. She yells at nobody, at all of us Why me, why me? Alarmed, we have no answer only silent questions why you, why not me? There is parental attention, cleansing, bandages and an ice cream cone. The day breeze dies the dark creeps closer. We pat her shoulders in search of our own comfort and circle around her like clumsy seagulls. Ghosts I’ve Met in Train Stations and Empty Seats In the wait space, no empty seat, my train still an hour away. I watch you pick up your bags, your coat, round up your belongings in a last glance and walk out the door which means the seat you occupied is now vacant. I drop my bag on the floor, sit down and wince. This chair you vacated is not empty. I feel like I am sitting on your lap, into the tepid embrace of the ghost you abandoned a phantom about your size. The shell of you still smells of sweat stale smoke and ocean breeze aftershave. It lingers fluid enough to curve around my shoulders, my legs nestles near my neck feeding my discomfort. I must stand, I fumble with my bag slowly retie my hiking boots allowing your ghost to fade away. I know people who don’t mind left-behind warmth. Marie-Andrée Auclair’s poems have found homes in many print and online publications in Canada, USA, Ireland, UK, and Australia; to name a few: Bywords, Canada; Flo Lit Mag, Canada; Paper Dragon, USA; High Window, UK. In addition to writing, she enjoys hiking, photography, traveling and adding to her cooking repertoire after each trip. She lives in Canada. |