I turn the dress loose—its hand-sewn collar,
its seven bodice buttons, the hem's frayed edge.
I follow each stitch as it slips
from its hold. I'll reconcile with time later
this habit of proceeding toward the smallest task
unhurried. My arms draw back and fan
the massive skirt. I lay the sleeve pieces
to one side, unfold the waist ties and stretch them
flat. I cut out the fringes of buttonholes
and lose hook & eye in my lap.
I'm pulling open this mystery,
knotted flaws where a seamstress hurried
over her error, threaded paths ending
in the hidden cusp of the waist, lint sewn
into a pocket's seam. I take it from intricacy,
from fragility, from a tenement of irreproachable
lightness. No dress for a shoulder to ease against,
a thigh burn on, none to take account
of the crescent curve an arm makes.
No angles coming to life on a hanger.
Just this current of bygones exhausting its hold.
A neck hole that gapes for form, for the body it fitted,
for sweats and perfumes, the hairs
caught willy-nilly in a fold, for the order
begetting size and season. No memory unhooks
down the breastbone's swell
and excuses me from today.