Where did the body end with legs
like these—leather fringed, sequined, double-
stitched by lights? That glitter galloped

upside-down around the ring; balanced
on a bronco’s back; all of it—satin and suede,
the persuasion of whips—began

in my mother’s hands. Out of dust-
thin paper, she cut every pattern for will,
every pattern for strength, for show-

stopping dares. Sewed buttons pearled
like revolvers down Corrine’s small
breasts. In her handmade smocks—

flowered or flounced—flensed
of all power but this, my mother settled
her skin:  paid seamstress with her needles

and thread; her cotton and scraps
where I played in a dream of gold netting
and zippers with nothing to close.

How I wanted a body like that:  bright
teeth and no tearable skin. How
I wanted to be not maker, but made—

all suspended belief, all rough-
riding diva with spurs and no reason
to kneel like a cushion for a pin

by those cowboy boots, to measure,
with soft fingers and care, the hem.

Back to Many a Goat  ||  Next: Lessons Before Fire