Poetic Licence


My corset is made of air,
stronger than steel or bone
and self-laced to shape me like a tube.

What better way to purge this hourglass?

You know,
Ms. Granger holds the record,
tight-laced to fifteen now and counting,
but I have no use for her corsetiere.

To be the hand within the glove
must have some appeal.

would Warhol craft
a stylized portrait to commemorate
the corset joining him in death?

To protect, support, heal:
this at least has merit.

Invisible and resilient,
my corset does not hold me in or back,
but rejects compression into
this shape you have defined for me.


Why should we not go down?

This is exorcism in an elevator,
your face a blur,
a hint of auburn locks, a crooked smile.

No good, no good, no good,
for anyone or anything.

One press and slam, a transformation.
Speeding upwards now,
your hands around my throat
passed every floor.

There are no destinations here,
no scheduled stops.
The walls have folded out and over,
the Big Bang in reverse:

I am the unmaker, the undoer.

You glimpse the edge,
concrete and steel, and then beyond.

It is all the chance I need,
and one thrust is enough to topple
what you were and are,
and never will become.