The Sewers of Lingere

They stitch lace to satin,
materials flowing between
their fingers, tiny movements

of needle and thread. Putting together
these tiny pieces of lust, they imagine
with every small pair the first time

a boy slid his hands down their backs
to push down this tantalizing gateway
to new life. The day wears on,

the pieces of fabric swell, they grow.
The women laugh and move through
their lives, the births of children,

celebrations, the things they wore
beneath black dresses at funerals,
the garments hidden beneath

the lies of adultry. Those who
have kept a semblance of small
frame, muscle, laugh and joke

about the image of a fat woman
spreading her legs, her lover’s lips
on her skin. The rest stay silent

hold back laughter, and pity
what the others will never know.

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