by Danielle Roderick
Steel blinders, made of metal that dusts. Helmet that fits under hair, heavy enough to keep head down. Same sooty metal. Collar of sleeping cat. Girdle of cake icing, bright and sloppy. Hose from an egg bowed to every morning. Hose struggled into, every morning. Begrudged for the lost shape of the toes, the new webs. Sitting and cased. No bra. A good suit will blanket all things swinging and pointing. Cotton/polyester/spandex, lined in flannel. Tailored at the waist and shoulders to promise feminine form: to soothe and distinguish. Chafed underarms are made up for the moment the jacket comes off, and all the hidden sweat. A pantsuit is not meant to be beautiful first, but I can pin on it whatever I want. Brooches and shopping ads from 1933. Always pistachio, red, something that catches a picture, that says I can wear color, I have to. I am the same, but I can bathe in your necktie. Serious face. Serious legs. Pants. Together. Confident. Well-groomed. Not light. Curvy and blocky. Elegant and factual. Covered. Presented. But don’t look at me, really. I'm just here, claiming space. But look at me. Listen to my suit. Listen to me in my pantsuit.
Bio: Danielle Roderick has more pajamas than real clothes, and more gowns than real clothes. She is alone in her office, not in real clothes, a lot. She also blogs as Carla Fran over here.
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