I am the dressmaker?s daughter.
He hates sewing
but he knows nothing else.
He kneels at women?s feet all day
while their faces tell him his touch doesn?t matter.
I am the dressmaker?s dummy.
I can fit any dress size.
His touch doesn?t matter.
He is my father.
I don?t need a head
or feet or arms.
I am the dressmaker?s daughter.
The pins leave a tattoo of scars.
He reads them to me at night.
I smell like cotton padding and rust.
These pins are pearls.
I?ve worn 16 wedding dresses.
My hair is made of lace.
My nails have been replaced by springs.
All day I hear the whirring of tiny gears.
Tiny girls circle my head, which I don?t need.
Underneath my skirt,
there?s an automitizer full of gasoline.
I am dangerous around small fires.
I am a machine
made of rubber bands, ear wax
and muzak.
I run on hot air.
When I hold my breath,
I hardly bleed.
These pins do not pop me like a balloon
made of wax or songs.
His slacks are striped taffeta.
I am the dressmaker or his daughter.