LEARNING TO LOVE ELIZABETH
Tinker Mather

Every morning she builds her hair
into an elaborate nest, sprayed, fixed
and designed to contain the riotous
thoughts that might disturb her day.

She wears an armour of cardigans,
stuffing her bust into a chainmail vest
and the rest between ribstitch,
whipstitch, chain and cable.

Her corset hugs her hips in a way
her husband doesn't dare.

Today she comes to see me. Walking
through my sitting room, she ignores
the cushioned sofas and sits down hard
on an Elizabethan chair.

She is medieval. Archaic memories
rise behind her eyes. Closing them
she leans back while her fingers work
to loosen the heavy lacquered hair.

Escaping wisps and curls begin
to riot with the horse hair,
chasing each other through
the faded turkey work.

With a sigh she spreads her thighs
wide across the stretchers,
her disintegrating corset weaves
in and out of the threadbare seat.

Her legs bow slightly,
yielding to fate,
and a pair of lions paws
absorb her little feet.

Stunts like these leave me weak
at the knees. I have to sit down.
In her lap. And I do, with her arms
around me, all afternoon.