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Rosalind Easton: a poem

Bra Fitting, Mayfair

I wonder if this might be Lingerie Oz:

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Marks & Spencer anymore.

Behind the cubicle's red velvet drapes

the fitter twangs the backstrap of my bra

like David Gilmour appraising the strings

of a charity shop guitar.

I think of Oberon and Titania's elves, who,

for fear, creep into acorn cups and hide them there

the fitter checks the label, laughs, then straps me

into something she says is a moulded balcony,

but seems to be a blue silk dragonfly's breath

as engineered by Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

Then when I read the size, and shriek with joy,

she swings me round to face the mirror –

and Coleridge, how right you were. For these

did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree;

the film critic who wrote of Lara Croft

in Tomb Raider a dead heat in a Zeppelin race

might well have typed those lines for me,

and if I have a child I can offend Nigel Farage

with what he calls breastfeeding ostentatiously

this means sparkly nipple tassels, one assumes,

and a playlist of appropriate showtunes

("Defying Gravity" from Wicked, obviously,

or Dolly Parton's "Islands in the Stream") –

but, for now, there's only one song I need:

"Man! I Feel Like a Woman" by Shania Twain.

Let's go girls, she says. Well, yes. Indeed.

This poem is from Rosalind's award-winning pamphlet, Black Mascara (Waterproof), published by The Poetry Business in February 2021. You can find it here.


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