It’s just fabric, but the shape is everything.
Like a boat made of steel, it’s all about
how you mould yourself into the world.
Like how the body is mostly water but still
walks, doesn’t pool and run into the sand, or
turn to droplets suspended in the air.
Like how even a disjointed sentence makes sense to
the speaker, nothing depends upon that black dress
because nothing depends upon a noun or verb.
The grammar of viscosity and bias, of colour,
darts and pleats is fleeting. And all the umpish gazes
are as far from getting it as makes no difference.
But my sister must put on her armour. She steps
from the wild places into the lexicon, swings the
knitted dark because there are no words.
Frank Klaassen’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals in Canada, the UK, and US, including The Malahat Review, Oxford Poetry, Canadian Literature, Stand, Grain, Painted Bride Quarterly, Five Points, The Dalhousie Review, and Columba.