Buttonhole by Kristin Garth

How hastily it disappears, a year 
you feel revered but not a girl at all, 
a passed around French babydoll with tears,
involuntarily expressed, which fall 
upon a ruffle trimmed black tea-length dress
unseen hands unbutton at another’s 
request.  Don’t understand but acquiesce.
This isn’t your first season.  The weather 
has changed. Accessories and skeleton 
are rearrangeable in positions 
some stranger likes the best until the sun 
shines on you a little less. And there’s just one
unfastened button back until you gain control 
of your anatomy, every buttonhole. 

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