Emer Martin








I Wear My Wife’s Shoes




This is Moitreyee’s painting to illustrate the story title, and here is the poem/story I wrote.  There is also a recording of the story that you can put up so people can listen to me read it.  Some people prefer that to reading.


They are refusing,

To sit,

Under bombs that are falling.

They are approaching,

Moving, walking, crawling

We are building


They need things

As I sleep

They break down my dreams

With their wanting.

I fence inside my skull,

Roll the barbed wire

Till it’s glimpsed out my eyes,

Twisted and thorny like a wild rose stalk

That can never flower.

As I sleep Russia is bombing them, the U.S is bombing them, Turkey is bombing them, France is bombing them,  Britain is bombing them, the Syrian government is bombing them, the Syrian rebels are bombing them, ISIS is bombing them.

They navigate through rough seas, crowded trains, barbed wire, and the hate?

As I sleep they don’t sleep.

They won’t stay still.

They ride those trains, they hide, they walk through deserts, they find paths on mountains, they float on the sea, rocked wild by ravenous waves, they flow like blood from an open wound.

I am waking static, stirring, scratching stretching, coffee making, eye rubbing. They are closer now. They never stopped walking.

I built that wall; I rolled the barbed wire fence across my field. And I locked myself in.

I am no longer open.

Did I not know that that’s what happens when you build walls?

You wall yourself in.

Reaching through the window, luminous morning stretches across my face and shoulders. I check the news on my phone, as they draw closer and closer. I catch glimpses of them. Their relentless odyssey exposed as they march across the tiny screens of the world.

Masculine feet spilling over the delicate ballet of shoe, collapsing the back, a man shuffles into the future, with sparkles of dread, “I wear my wife’s shoes,” he shrugs.  “Her feet were bleeding.”

Who will stop this man?

Who has seen such love?

Who has been loved like this?

Coward, I shrill, opportunist,

Not refugee but migrant,

Can they not fix what they running from?

What are they going to take from us?

I have a tidy home, a small neat garden, only enough room for a few spring bulbs evenly spaced color coordinated; I myself have to go out into the world in order to bring food back. What if there’s not enough? Everyday I need more. I have never been without food for even a day. Do they need what I need? Do they expect what I expect?

To not die?

To thrive?

To dream?

What will they take from us?

What are they looking for?

To not die?

To thrive?

To dream?

Each night I sleep

They are moving, walking, approaching, crawling through fences, arriving,


As I sleep, they attach to, then dismantle my dreams.

A boiling tar of fear scalds through my guts.

I wear my wife’s shoes. He said.

What can I do?

Her feet were bleeding,

He shrugs.

My feet are too big,

They do not fit.

The camera cuts to his feet. His feet are too big; they crush the back of the tiny shoes. Then he quotes Shakespeare to the journalist, “To Be or not to be,” he says from a smiling abyss of resignation, waving his hand “We will be.”

Summer tessellates into winter. Our children back at school. Beaches stretch empty. Restaurants closed. Sun glasses and flip flop stands locked away. No more inflatable crocodiles, dolphins, and dragons hanging outside the shops.  The air filled plastic menagerie has been deflated and stored.

Cold snaps in

Rain falls down

I turn on my heat. I sleep under my covers. My fuel has to be got from outside. I can’t fuel myself. Still they come, only now they say they are cold, they do not have enough blankets or rain coats.  They do not have enough. How could they have walked away with so little? How could she have undertaken the journey in such flimsy shoes? Spilling like blood from everywhere, from the east, from the south, as I sleep they are still coming, filling all the empty spaces.

Each night I lie down and clench my eyes shut. I can feel the vibration of the earth they tread, walking as I sleep, over ditches, over fields, using smartphone flashlights, making tiny light circles in the swamp brick of night, can they not leave the dark alone? Is there no rest? Deliberate step-by-step walking away from metal filled cluster breath of multiple governments with bad intent, from the rubble of hospitals, from the poison gas, from everything that surrounds them, all they remember; they are like atom jumping mad electrons. Do not think that we won’t all be changed by this shifting and switching.

We will be.

Still they keep coming

Crushing the mild grasses in the wrong shoes

Your feet are the wrong color;

Your feet are the wrong religion,

Your eyebrows too heavy,

Your nose is too long,

Your wife’s head is covered,

She wears your shoes.

Nothing fits.

I clench tighter, roll into a ball.

I am still asleep. Not in control. My muscles jerk. My breathing deepens.  You are closing in.

Each night brings you closer, more and more of you. Soon I will be surrounded.

You are here.  I can feel you outside my door in the deep dead  dark night when the sun drenches the other side of the world.  I swing my feet to the floor, hoist myself up, tip toe barefoot through the narrow hall, I peep through the peephole.

You stand in the middle of the night, outside my front door.  I can hear you breathing. Your wife bites her lip. She averts her gaze. You do not. I look down at your feet.

Her feet were bleeding, what could I do?

Can I love like you love?

Do I have that love inside?

What can I do?

I stop being afraid

I open the door.

I let myself in.

I wear her shoes.




I Wear my wife’s shoes















Emer Martin is a Dubliner who has lived in Paris, London, the Middle East, and various places in the U.S. Her first novel Breakfast in Babylon won Book of the Year 1996 in her native Ireland at the prestigious Listowel Writers’ Week. Houghton Mifflin released Breakfast in Babylon in the U.S. in 1997. More Bread Or I’ll Appear, her second novel was published internationally in 1999. Emer studied painting in New York and has had two sell-out solo shows of her paintings at the Origin Gallery in Harcourt St, Dublin.  Her third novel Baby Zero, was published in the UK and Ireland March 07, and released in the U.S. 2014.  She  completed her third short film Unaccompanied. She produced Irvine Welsh’s directorial debut NUTS in 2007. Emer founded the publishing cooperative Rawmeash in 2014. Emer was awarded the Guggenheim Fellowship in 2000. She now lives California.


For information on the publishing cooperative go to www.rawmeash.com


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