The moon, a dime pressed on the pane,
shines on the closet door. I enter.
Scent of cedar spreads. Rows
of clothes go on and on, empty
sleeves cling to my arms. I hear
Brahm’s Lullaby in chimes.
At the far end of the closet,
flames from beeswax candles shine,
silhouette a man working,
furiously pedaling an antique treadle
sewing machine. He turns, his mouth
quilled with pins. The music box
winds down, stops. Bolts of cloth
lean on the walls. A tangled measuring
tape writhes, snaking to the floor.
Dressmaker dummies, draped and dressed,
crowd the cutting table, where
a pair of shears gape open-mouthed.
Get out! He rises, grips the shears,
growls through a grin of steel pins.
You can’t be here! Wake up! Get out!
Faultline Journal of Arts and Letters, Volume 34