Her handwriting sways like a song
in dull pencil on dime store tablet paper.
The rodeo tailor’s name is misspelled
but other details are exact: her bust
measurements, her waist, her hips.
A real woman’s shape will swing
toward the microphone, in the silver
cape lined in red satin she’s asking
the tailor to make. Yearning and ache
will glitter her voice as a flash
comes. She remembers the red
cowgirl suit sewn by her mother,
wagon wheels and rhinestones burden
the hem. The tailor receives her letter
as the wreckage smolders nose-first
in the murky woods. How long will it take you?
she asks the tailor. Forever we search
for the spangle and sequin.
Forever we follow her calligraphed tones.