Natasha Wright

Silver Shoes and Lies

Two silver shoes are lying in the hall

abandoned, scattered, toppled on their sides

with heels pointed delicate, too tall,

too scuffed, too cheap, and nowhere near my size-

and clinging from the heel: a crumpled thong

of see-through lace, just luring me ahead,

to find the feet to which these shoes belong;

they’re wrapped around my husband in my bed.

Now frozen in the doorway my heart beats

hard in my throat, their filthy secret bleeds

from tangled bodies: lies that stain the sheets;

but clean-up will be quick, all that I need:

one hand to wipe away the tears, a man

who lies, two bullets and a steady hand.