WHEN CATHOLIC GIRLS GO RIDING

My Mexican pony
turned again and found
himself adrift amidst
the Bambis of the Eastern shore.
North Carolina is just
as lovely this time of year,
with soft brown eyes that look
the same as air.
I ride along, forgetting
my comb, so I need
to find a pattern
for an A-line skirt.
Has your dad only
got one eye?
What’s he left
to see the rest with?
On the other side
of other words,
you can’t tie a person
down with nylon pure.
You can break them out
in corduroy patterns.
You can house them in
with herringbone.
I don’t usually take to
women with leisure class
sports jackets.
So if I was overheard
in stating, “I’m going
to buy a massive ring
with conflict diamonds,”
would you admit
our liaisons?
Do you like
my paisley-serged seams
with turquoise ribbon trimmings?
You could truly become
my only glue,
with a touch of open destiny.
Except, I don’t
believe in disbelief,
ever the hushed-out cop.
Whatever you do,
don’t be yourself instead.
Forego the silence and solitude.
Pull on this chocolate brown
wool appliqué, fully lined.
With each attempt,
she dropped his body
like an acorn’s leaf,
a loaf of sugar melted
into hardened human limbs.
Cancer hadn’t taught us
anything by then.
Now, the rictus spreads
into my nasal areas.
But I’m wearing this bib
of rib-stitched Gold Lamé
with self yoke and peekaboo
creases that deplete
the injuries my keeper keeps
crossing out.
I’m sure I’ve worn
my welcome down,
but I kick his sides,
driving across these frictions
on my dearest mule,
sad to leave some beside
the ocean’s curbside,
along the road to hell,
one stop after heaven’s
gated chartreuse.
God nervously awaits
on the other side
in her mocha acetate
A-line with hand-dyed lace,
and subtle snake bows
tugging at the hemline.

–From SLAVES TO DO THESE THINGS

Sexy book Fashion poems Poetry spd style