Download PDF Here 13th Anniversary
Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Two December 2022.
Denise’s Lingerie, poems by Mary Scheurer.
Through a blue door, time lapse staggers you in
to enquire about a swimsuit (azure, pink trim)
perhaps in my size? She rises from her seat
approaches with wise smile, perspicacious eyes.
The way to know is try it on. There is only one.
Delicate fingers slip off the maillot
from its tailor’s dummy, naked cyborg now,
as she bids you follow her, cubicles ahead.
While shedding clothes, elegant tones invite
monsieur to sit. The costume is a perfect fit.
Approving nods. As she removes the tags
we praise the boutique: she, chic and confidential
unravels her story. For years this was her home
Denise. Here stood a fireplace, kitchenette there
Note manicured nails, slim waist, impeccable hair.
Denise, it seems, is eighty-two. Climbs stairs
three by three. We gasp and her eyes gleam. Never
would she wear flat shoes, husband refuses.
Once drove a tractor in stilettoes. Half a century
of expertise in lingerie, seamstress, pro.
How she delights in the presence of a spouse
to aid a lady choose. This flattered husband
settles back in the sofa, as Denise selects
a choice of small boxes for Madame to inspect.
An hour later we leave Denise’s Lingerie
laden with many ribboned packages.
Out of that filigree Tardis, into the now.
J’aime plus Paris?
We fell out for years, no tears from Paris
didn’t give a damn, sweet promises sham.
So I packed my anger, left in a huff.
It was the rough treatment and tantrums
irate taxi drivers, the rush of it all
don’t call me and I won’t call you.
Forty years on, much bitterness gone,
treading the Tuileries gardens. The ground
sends up tendrils of fleur de lys, patterning
my legs like exquisite silk stockings some
favoured courtesan would wear for her king.
Alleys of trees sing, gently drop their leaves.
Crackling autumn carpet, its percussion
crisp, leads on brisk steps to the Seine’s banks.
Pathways and tunnels invite the eye; graffiti,
street art. A new courtship has started here.
The river runs on, watchful chaperone,
only a cloud or two over the isle of St Louis.
Notre Dame breathes once more beneath healing
hands and a tarpaulin shelter. Later on
in Place Vendome, my skin begins a lambent
transformation. Gems from the pores, Cartier
sparkles, Van Cleef and Arpels gift me a glow
known only by the beloved at betrothal.
Morning on the Boulevard Saint Michel,
ground coffee, fresh bread, hope in the air
is it fair to say its over? Sparrows twitter
dissent in the trees. Piaf agrees, ‘For the times
that we have known here, I will sing a hymn
to love.’ A table comes free. Paris and me.
But the green wheelbarrow
starts to rust
under its covers
© Mary Scheurer
Mary Scheurer feels very privileged to live close to the Alps in France and is able to enjoy wonderful mountain and lakeside scenery on a daily basis. A retired Philosophy teacher, she enjoys walking or cycling around her home and is often inspired to write whilst enjoying the rich silence she finds amid local vineyards, woods or riverside. Her poetry has been published in Ireland, England, the Czech Republic and Switzerland and she is delighted to see her poetry once again in ‘Live Encounters’.