END OF THE LINE Poem by Louis De Paor

It won't do you anymore,
the slit skintight dress
that measured in your eyes only
the change in your girlish figure
to its full womansize,
it won't do you anymore.

A light breeze plays with its empty shape
on the loose clothesline outside,
finding curves and straight lines
that have nothing to do
with your treacherous body
since it turned insideout against you,
when the secret hollow under your waist
split like a wishbone.

The long dress
laps at your swollen calves
and you're short of breath
in the unusual heat;
you open the top button of your blouse
as if there was a mouth at your breast
sucking the good from the air,
devouring your share of oxygen.

You drink water
as though it's your element
and you'd think nothing of inhaling honey
through your wide-open pores;
your attention is fickle as a goldfish
as he forgets the wonders of his glazed world
with every flick of his tail.

Every time you move,
you forget, I think, I'm there,
as you swim through the dull kitchen air
like there were barrels of oil
in your way. And that swan-like body
in my head to which my heart
gave in forever and a day,

you won't put it on anymore,
the tyranny of my eyes
that held your growing body
tight as the ties of marriage,
it won't do you anymore,
you won't put it on again.