|The Poet in
Victoria’s Secret ™
The poet’s breasts aren’t melons, but some lace
can turn a hungry mind to what is there.
By incandescent light, she learns to pace
desire with silk and underwire. A flair
for barely-there trumps naked. Artifice
is how she slowly works into the day,
away from what’s too comfortable and quick.
It’s a kick, trading Hanes for lingerie.
And on the antique nightstand, Dickinson,
whose whalebone stays beneath a long white gown
are never mentioned, but they’re understood.
The poet’s seduction, scored, or left undone,
foreshadowed by a touch or muffled sound,
repeats the simple struggle to be good.