‘Paper Kisses’
Ann-Marie Brown is a Canadian artist known for her encaustic paintings that explore emotional and psychological depth through ambiguity, texture, and intuitive process. Her work has been exhibited across Canada and the U.S., with recent shows at Soul Gallery (Winnipeg) and the Women’s Art Museum of Canada (Edmonton). Her paintings are held in the permanent collections of Senvest, the Women’s Art Museum of Canada, and the Encaustic Art Museum (Santa Fe).
Paper Kisses
My chin rests on her left, chest pressed
to the flat back of the seat, close
to her neck I breathe her perfume
bottle on her dresser same number
as me: Five. Mustn’t touch.
She lowers the visor and I gaze
at the mirror reflecting her
face. I wait
for the click of her blue bag’s clasp
when a golden tube will appear
the twist
of a slanted wand of colour
aimed straight
at the O she shapes with her lips.
Red, red, round and round, her blue eyes
fixed on the target ‘til we hit
a bump.
I fall to the floor. Hard.
“Dammit, John. Slow down, for Christ’s sake.”
Tiny fingers regain their grip.
My green eyes find her at the edge
of the mirror.
Her bright lips sing above the roar of
Desoto’s tires, our tiger runs
in the tank, tail wagging from our trunk.
Dad joins in with Tammy “standing
by her man.” Hands drum the wheel, keep
time. “We’ll paint the town red,” he said.
Through a haze of his smoke I stare
as Mom’s bright lips disappear pressed
tight like she’s swallowing medicine
and then
she shakes a tissue from her bag
dabs the corners of her mouth then
refolds the paper, smooths the line
opens wide.
“Puck.”
A print. Why? I sigh. I liked it
before. She shakes the paper, hands
it back, pinched between painted nails
eyes fixed on the mirror.
“A kiss for you, baby.”
My valentine rests on my skirt
as I trace the faint kiss round, round.
Only one. One only. Each week.
Just for me. On Saturday. Mine
I look up. Too close, there it is:
Town.
My arm bangs the door as I crouch
to unwind the window a crack,
grip the lip, chest cold on the glass,
perched on my knees, my heart flutters
Drink in the breeze and set free my
white butterfly. With painted wings.
Mom laughs. “You really shouldn’t, dear…”
“Never mind,” Dad says. “It’s just paper.”
“Never mind,” I repeat inside.
“My kiss will come. Next time.”
Red light. Stop. We three jerk ahead.
Mom shrugs, revisits her face, bats
her long, dark lashes, shutters
those crystal eyes, touches a black
crayon to that perfect mole on
her sculpted cheek, licks her index,
smooths arched eyebrows, then seals the deal
with a powder puff. Next comes the
“Click.”
Lipstick, compact, handbag, mirror cover, visor.
One, two, three, four, five.
“Play your game, kids. Gran’s house, ahead”
Now while my love drives I flip the mirror
and think I spy my young green eyes as I circle
in pink round and round I go, O,
the seat belt holds me close. On
the radio, Petty’s breaking hearts.
Left of the headrest I sense breath
caress my neck, inhale my scent: Opium Spice.
The rose, jasmine of Mom’s Chanel were
never mine.
I open my purse, tissue in hand, close
my lips, squeeze and
“Puck.”
Refold and smooth the rosy print.
“Zip.” I slip the paper deep inside.
The kisses I give our child will never
fly.
Lise Mayne (aka LG Pomerleau) is a retired educator writing poetry and prose from her home in Alberta. An associate of the League of Canadian Poets, the Canadian Authors’ Association and the Writers’ Union of Canada, her poetry is published in ten international literary publications, honoured by five award nominations. Lise’s life-long passion for Canadian history and immigration stories inspired two novels, Becoming Sand (2012) and Time Enough (Oprelle Publications, 2024). Recent poetry publications include Heartland Literary Magazine and Haymaker Literary Magazine, 2024. Injustice and the search for home are central themes in her work.
Website: https://www.lisemayne.ca/
