Her fingers work like dancers over yards of fabric
Patterned with those little flowers, pink and blue.
The sewing machine buzzes with the cold activity
Of a room that’s pale in winter sun, and yet
There’s sprinkles of the brightest colour,
Fabric swatches and those mannequins, draped and swathed
With toile and satin dyed in beauty, orange burnt
To something warm, in a room so white it hurts
To stare too long at freezing walls.
But as she works, the garment starts to shape,
Bending to her will, the skirts flare out
And she can picture twirling it, on a carpet
Scarlet with the cameras flashing, begging for
A shot of her. Who’s she wearing? they will shout
And she will blush and say it’s hers.
When it’s done she slides it on, her porcelain skin
And bright red lips curl into a smile,
An angel in her little heaven, soon to spread
Her devil wings, and venture out to turn some heads.