| 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. |
