It was too tight even then, as if he wished
me slimmer or to spill out erotically
at every move. Now, as I rip strips for shoe
buffing, the cockerel-red cloth pulls
hard against me, held by its gristle of seams.
The stitches resist, baring white teeth
that grin all the way to where he loved best.
An embroidered dragon gives a stuttering shriek
as it releases lost passion, the rapture of silk
between his palms and my thighs
now worn to a gauze through which the past
riddles darkly – our mutual scent tumbled
in so many cleans, beaten to oblivion, or perhaps
blended as we could never be.
