The Velvet Book
The bodies of women
try and try and try. Unlike the still life
I do not name all that is.
I just try. I cannot turn from the thought
or help but rehearse the shades
pulling themselves over us—copper gloss,
iridescent bronze, brandied raisin,
singed persimmon, amber-auburn, snakescaled apricot, ombre grey-gold
canary stormdust—each pronounces, lets
as easily as a spaghetti strap
from a hanger lacking teeth.
It haunts me, understand—
velvet’s articulate where I am not.
Over & over my arm seeks the inside
of a slow honey sleeve heavy enough to confirm me.
Golden hour, red sunset,
saffron cigar, faded sable, cracked topaz,
mustard rust—every bolt I conjure
backed with silk that is wet, that is dark, that is
stained or snagged, its ribbon-edge
singed. If she weren’t spilled gold what
would we see. If she weren’t
burned or strewn or gilt. If she weren’t
closed to us as though
reachable only as the story.
Ready to sleep.
I fell for women because I could read.
Because women were sleeping
and I wasn’t, because women were speaking
and I wasn’t, because stories
were telling to me. I fell for what they gathered
and kept gathering. I believed.
- Project Bookshelf: Rachel Bulman - May 1, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Affidavit by Starr Davis - May 1, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Affidavit by Starr Davis - April 30, 2026
