Her Most Transient

I believe in the rustling of skirts against the boards,
twenty-five yards of lavender silk shantung,
stitched hours into the cold night by long, pale fingers;
worn by a series of Fairy Queens
(who were not me);
the knots separating hoop skirt from petticoat
and grommet from grommet.

The only elevation possible-
drowning in gathers and sleeves-
found in a bolstering golden slipper
or a precariously balanced diadem.
Breath hidden under dripping diamonds,
doe-eyes big to hide the fact you’re choking within plastic.



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