Poem 16
Fell behind, not sure if I’ll catch up again. We’ll see. There was a lot of poetry in last night’s The Endgame, so I had to give it a try.
Elena Composed The black lace symbolizes nothing, purely aesthetic, cut and measured and curved and sewn to set off the very shape of me. No one will see this today, but in this dim mirror don't I deserve to be irresistible if only to myself? The black stockings are sensible, though, warmth, protection, a barrier against the cold metal chair and searching eyes. I'm not a modest woman but there are rules, you know. Skin must be deployed carefully. The heels? The simple pleasure of a beautiful thing with the name of a knife. Over it all, more black, for today's work is deathly serious. But I need just a glimmer more, a hint, gold embroidered up and down in a long row of exes, like a game I've won several times. Exes, maybe. Or perhaps the feathery tops of stalk after stalk falling for the scythe. Feed them through the spindle, magic in the proper hands. Or stacks, carefully balanced, brick by brick, a solid foundation but hollow beneath the weight of millions. Or maybe it's all for the moment you see me and forget a second just where you are.