The Bridal Salon

Every day I dust the dummy arms –
a pair of arms on the floor that stretch, fingers erect, sheathed in sequined satin.
Breathless women peer in, picturing their own limbs trussed thus,
their torsos corseted, legs swaddled in rustling petticoats.

I um and ah as they twist their necks to scintillate tiaras.
“Divine”, I murmer, lacing them in, hauling tight enough to leave them winded,
then slink off as they glint in the mirror before triumphantly presenting.

As the assembly bestow approval, I dust, and can’t help conjuring up
a girl,
petrified,
left in an oubliette,
filled in with cement.
Eureka.

One day, after cashing up, when the hard rolls of notes have gone upstairs in bags,
the portcullis grate is heavy-lidded, and only the last light is on,
I will rescue those fossilized arms that implore from the floor,
and, far from here, compensate some semi-naked classical femme, missing something.

Every day, as I bundle the fat wads and turn out the light,
I chuckle at the thought of noble white marble with plastic prosthetics.
Then I turn the key and lock her in.


21/10/05