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Epith Poem By Carol Muske

Epith Poem By Carol Muske

Here’s the little dressmaker
on her knees at your feet,
mouth full of pins:
fixing you in the dummy’s image.
Your belled satin shivers like
a goblet of fizzled brut—
You wanted it late in life,
happiness, wanted a little family
but after the kids grew up.
Like a saint on her death pallet,
you longed for an erotic God
but a refined deity—
not some oversexed Zeus
in a see-through raincoat,
spritzing gold coins,
rattling the canopy. No,
at last you’ve found a groom
born to forget the ring,
the bride’s name—
a regular holy ghost.
You forget yourself
with each glittering pin,
each chip off the old rock,
each sip of the long toast,
to your famous independence,
negotiated at such cost—
and still refusing to fit.

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