Panoply

You sew the rag-edge of a sequin to your skirt,
     boas thrown over the mirror.
He taps the chair three times and holds you down.

Silk in the cupboard, soot in the tub, the floor
     furious with dust and hair. You sketch more pleats
near the waistline, picking at the dark meat.

The blownglass girl swings in her dress. A stable,
     a vacant gown, caught-sun in the eyelet, half a moon
in the fist. Still, a bent elbow, fish in the trash.

He is yellow and burning, a slack robe
     felled to a lit spot on the floor, a pile
of feathers, a miniature. You half hold it up.

Copyright © 2005 Kristin Kelly All rights reserved
from Northwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission