She’s Cut From Some Other Type of Cloth

Brought in the hatbox

Set it on the dresser where you brush your hopes

Helped plat your despair from two long faces

Span with care a bun from a hum drum of hair

Watched you clip in weaves of woe with frowning furls of curls

Whilst I chip away at what is so wrong with this shape you seek

Penny for your thoughts, you turn on a dime, and refuse me my pound of flesh

Aghast I am, taken quite aback, I put up the front of courage forsook

You pull, tease and tether and announce to the nether that I am to be cut out of the plot

Tightening the corset, heaving the breast, and begone before the sparrow knows not

But blinded by that shape, bewitched by the form, and out to sea from a mirage

I leave your best dress—recently pressed— upon the bed ready for when you return

Keeping the closet open, to get some much-needed air, the dusty dresses dance wild

As they are caught by the open window’s wind from a salty season in decline

The air that circulates the room heaves just like the pulse of a hurricane

Yet I stand here on guard for a year and some change

Hoping you’ll return to update fancies and change the clothes range

And wear something more appropriate, for now that winter has fallen

I demand you here trussed up and tied together into something much warmer

For I don’t want you to fall out of fashion

Or fall from grace

Or into another’s arms

Because then you’ll catch your death


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