The old masters
got them wrong,
their locations, at
least. Not pinned
at the spine like a moth’s
or the bone blade spurt.
From the tiny bloom
of sternum I swept
over shoulders, fanned,
arc’d. Slit for heavy arms.
How on earth do you
expect to walk in them? Ha.
Be/hold balsa ribbons
planed, laced, bindings,
not for flight but descent.
How will you care for me,
keep me from fire.
It sings, you know,
Consecration.
Consolation,
a promise to be ever
sewn into the sun.
After a corset from the Alexander McQueen collection No. 13, spring/summer 1999.
Originally published in Rust + Moth.