A material so light, so adroitly
elastic, that it barely clings: rests
snugly against flesh:
for some reason, as I run my
index finger between fabric
and skin, I think
of Adrienne Rich’s
‘Diving into the Wreck’,
though your body perfect
and no one here argues
against the perfection of God,
or God’s myths.
Rather, the material wrecks
and wreaks havoc: a fabric
so light, so precise,
that labour and fibre and energy
and technology and advertising
and profit unfurl:
peeled off your bottom,
rotten on the shop floor
where pricked fingers
and white, red, blue lace
flicker on the boss’s
video monitor: machines
so loud—percussion
through sea-dank air,
as I sample
your wares,
kept back
to entice.