Weight

Agatha’s hand

is heavy on the

velvet waist of my

half-laced bodice. The

meaning of weight: I

will soon sprawl beneath

brocade, her body

slung beneath my skirts.

She will snort, heave, stand,

stagger, and slam out.

Still, the weight of her

hand thrills through my thigh.

Let me lean, press my

hip against her suede

skin. Beneath my skirt

my slip rides up. I

feel my bodice crease

beneath her severe

fingertips. I drop

my eyes. Hide their sheen.

The weight deserts my

waist. Her hands lumber

across my breast. A

tug. Dangling ribbons

yield. Her terse voice: “A

double bow will keep

ribbons from skipping

out.” Hands slide beneath

my collar. Compress

my shoulders. I gleam.

I’d slump beneath her

pleats. I’m thread. Let her

weave me into twill.

I’d succumb. Her hands

are still. I stand, red.