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

you again

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

me open

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

hungering claim.

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

contained in

a crushed piece

of lace

23 Replies to “Lace”

  1. 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.

  2. 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.

  3. 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.

  4. 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 …

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