House of McQueen

Valerie Wallace
Blush slash shocks callous London. Worth
built his own house.
Others consider cloth’s ripple, want
a red flare to flaunt.

Finery’s patterns indeed shift to threads, line
draws down interred silhouette.
But while we live awhile here
pattern and line gather

quiet that is anything
but quiet. Each time, dream delights
as if a small wing beats, and leaves
dance under our transient skins.

Related Poems

Ghosts and Fashion

Although it no longer has a body
to cover out of a sense of decorum,

the ghost must still consider fashion—

must clothe its invisibility in something
if it is to “appear” in public.

Some traditional specters favor
the simple shroud—

a toga of ectoplasm
worn Isadora-Duncan-style
swirling around them.

While others opt for lightweight versions
of once familiar tee shirts and jeans.

Perhaps being thought-forms,
they can change their outfits instantly—

or if they were loved ones,
it is we who clothe them
like dolls from memory.