Elena Composed

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.