Ordinary Sheers

Jennifer Sperry Steinorth


Scarlet O’Hara made herself
a gown of emerald velvet curtains
flanking book-length, drawing room windows—
the twisted tassels looped in loose embrace
‘round her corseted waist, her locks crowned
with smart, pleated hat and verdant plumes. 
Her tragedy via iconography. 
In our rooms, Love, there are only sheers—
gauzy raiments of dingy lace that whimper
in faintest breeze, obscuring nothing
but the hard edges of trees in winter.
Anyone outside in the dark could see us
wielding small cruelties, together and apart—
but it doesn’t make us stars.