I felt as if my body was in a picture frame.
A simple math of angles really,
nothing too fussy, a square,
soldered at each corner a ring, sound
design, just thin enough not to be confused
for shackles, there are no chains,
little bangles to meet her biceps,
garter her strong upper thighs, see
there is room for her to slip out of them
if she chooses, McQueen asked,
she had a choice, okay,
okay?, okay?!,
she was made aware of the frame, open
to opening the show, to show,
McQueen said, Aryan notions
of beauty are ridiculous,
so why not open—her body
as the entry way, her walk
barely a walk, an animal-scuttle,
does she even feel it, when her thighs
pedal her down the steps, is there an ache,
her soles slosh the runway—filled with black
water, it isn’t that deep,
a tributary to hop across, or
a mouth opened to trouble
the hound-eyed cameras’
sniff for the smell of
genius, everyone claps
for her, or not for
her, the simple black
mesh dress, its beaded fringe—
how, as graceless as she appears,
she manages
not a rip or tear, isn’t it a miracle,
McQueen’s folly, his imagination,
a savagely dark and beautiful thing?
from Fantasia for the Man in BlueFind more by Tommye Blount at the library
Copyright © 2020 Tommye Blount
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.