On the outside
I button up well
zip my mouth in pink
comb my hair with calico
hold my faux ostrich skin purse close to chest
the powdered lady at the department store said;
yes, you will need to throw out your old bras and buy new ones
plumping her glossy lips as she showed me
a larger cup size and I
drank from my own, the last dregs of eleven am coffee
I couldn’t tell her
each one has a story, especially those broken
they smell of you still
their color is that of emotions I felt
when you unhooked them and took into your mouth
my wandering need
instead then, I nod acquiescent and purchase
three new bras for a stranger who is not me
black for night
white for day
violet for the hour
lay your claim in my dreams
as I walk out, she waves and says;
you’ll be much more comfortable now
happy she’s done her job
dressing women with empty eyes in fine lace
she doesn’t know
for me, comfort is an emotion I have no need of
I like to feel your sharp ivory teeth
run across my skin and break
spilling my seeds, red and glittering on the wet cotton
of our writhing impression
it’s more than bra size that cuts deep
leaving lines and circles of indigo and purple
colors for the bruises blooming inside
a field of damsons fallen from tree unpicked
for who now knows, how to make such wine?
I think of the times you tore
and rent and split
that wire artifice from my trembling frame
I remember the taste of blood on my lips
as I bit down in want and fire
for your fingers to beckon and curl
within the flexing circle of me
and that girl was smaller and opaque
like japanese lily she grew swollen with water
shedding her kimono stain beneath surface
swimming without need of air
to bend and contort like alabaster crane
between you and within you
her tongue no longer using words
to sate her impulse and your
As I wait for the elevator
my head ever bowed in recollection
holding desultory purchase like fly swatter
I cross my neat legs and watch my shiny high heels
click together in tight voiceless longing
I am seen by all, as a demure, well-dressed woman
shopping without thought, her lips slightly open in musing
the mine of my mind is burning
for your take of me
and the memories
a crushed piece
23 Replies to “Lace”
I love the sudden contrast between her thoughts and the ‘waiting for the elevator’. Very deftly done.
Oh, my, the secret lives and loves of the demure, well-dressed women shopping, one can hope never again to see them so simply on passing.
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
TheFeatheredSleep – Beneath the public surface
Absolutely glorious and lush…
Just perfect, Candice!
Right? I love that. I think that is the most erotic way to be. I’m thinking of Catherine Deneauve in The Hunger but also Carol in The Price of Salt (later renamed Carol and made into a film by the same name, although the book is by far superior as is often the case). That coolness wherein lies anything but. I suppose that is why Grace Kelly was popular. Makes me wonder if it is a blonde thing, but surely not, it’s a poise thing.
Poise, indeed, and with it the erotic mystery of self-possession. speaking from my particular generation, I think of Marlene Dietrich, Katherine Hepburn, and Greta Garbo.
My goodness this is exquisite writing. I had to remind myself to breathe!
Rarely do we get such honesty, such glimpses into the mind of the “well heeled” we might find ourselves sharing a ride with to the 33rd floor …
So evocatively erotic
“happy she’s done her job
dressing women with empty eyes in fine lace”
I never thought I could earn a “deft” from my mistress of poesie so this is everything.
You are always deft with your words 🙂
This piece is beautiful Candice xxx
Beautifully moving and exquisite good.
Thank you Asimov xoxo
Thank you darling girl. Yesterday was a day of reading you and that was a GOOD thing!
Coming from you – well suffice to say I adore you Jane
You are lovely. Thank you so much
Thank you so much my dear friend
You welcome, Candice.
Say, you haven’t stopped by in a long while to read some of my work.
Adoration back at you 🙂
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