CONSTRICTION
by Denise Cruey May
It was the first time I’d seen anyone,
besides my mother, wear one.
I was dressed and ready for church
in anklets and Mary Janes
and I had to wait while you stuffed yourself
into a band of elastic and garters
that would repel bullets at close range.
When I questioned, you said
it was to hold up your hose, but I knew
it was to disguise your rolls of “baby”fat.
You skinnied on the girdle.
“Don’t look,” you said.
I could still hear the grunting.
When you said, “Okay, you can open your eyes,”
I wished I hadn’t,
but I couldn’t turn away.
You wore the girdle under your panties
giving them a strange angularity.
All through church the image stayed with me–
you in your girdle and bra
while Jesus filled the air around us.
I wonder,
do you bother now with such contraptions
in your angular tin home
where your husband keeps you small?
M is for
May is the month that morels might magically manifest in a meadow.
(I love alliteration.)