of your garter, that hold up
your stocking, but not your
vertebra. Barter for wanton
lure. The men, translucent
and elastic hook on in a snap
as the nylon, without the strap.

They strip you
of your cover. Your armor is
strapped on and wrapped in lace
and underwire, and shall expire
in a couple of years. You've rusty
gears.

They strip you
of your prestige, label you
a tease. You revolt with crimson
lipstick and black widow mascara. You,
a Mata Hari hiding in your sherry. Pain
ripe as berries swallow down your grief
through clenching teeth.