The Corset is a freedom poem, a reflection on the interplay between personal freedom, personal choices, circumstances, and expectations.
The Corset – Freedom Poem
The maid stood at the tall Georgian window, yards away from
Elizabeth, pulling the strings to tighten the corset around
her ribs until the sweet sharp pain struck.
By now, the corset's two lines running from her shoulders down
to her roots drawing a v-sign scaffolded her curves, leaving
nothing to chance only red marks on her pale skin,
soon clad in silk and mohair. With delicate fingers, the maid
laced up her limbs and tied strings to Elizabeth's wrists and
ankles to ready her for her duties.
Stilettos in place, the maid passed the strings to the heaven's
above and left Elizabeth staring out across the trees and
meadows, waiting for a tug on the corset
so she'd know where to put her body. Underneath her layered
dress, Elizabeth bosomed a notebook and a paintbrush she snuck
away from the art supplier's down in the village,
at a stretch, bearing her mind's better place whenever the
corset's metal bolts dug deeper than they ought to. As a rule,
the strings would have her exchange pleasantries and scatter
kind words to friends and foes. Elizabeth didn't mind, though
the paper and brush concocted daily seductions, told tales of
bolting horses and unruly gentle winds.
Every night, the maid returned to undo the corset, untie the
strings, unlace the stilettos and match the sweetness of the
morning's sharp tug with the song of Elizabeth's sigh.
Some nights, she'd rise and run across the meadows among the
trees, go riding bolting horses, have unruly gentle winds
comb her hair, only to return
just before dawn, ready to be strung up once more.