iv.

in the patriarcal hierarchy
that is the fashion world
there are always two men—

one calls the shots.
one receives them. you
in your long-sleeved
oxfords, hiding your arms,
ashamed of the holes.

one who sits behind a mammoth
mahogany desk &
chews the end of his pencil.
one who smells of steel & cotton,
hands calloused & filthy
from the machinery, fingering /
feeling pairs of breasts
for measurements.

there are no erections allowed
in the fashion world. at least not for you.

that is my job, as muse,
as infiltrator.