It’s Love that Pushes Stockings Down
Stockings are like wolves,
the way they fall and sniff at ankles, nip at heels.
If a girl’s stocking comes down,
her lover is thinking of her.
He wants to be the stocking,
then fall so she can smooth him back up
along her thigh.
He wants to wrap himself around her leg,
become the lash of whip against her skin.
He’ll be the seam that twists
so she can set him straight.
He’ll be the garter that holds the stocking,
then come undone for the slow slide down,
the ride along the curve of her knee,
the swell of her calf.
He’ll be the wrapping, she the gift.
He wants to walk where she walks.
He wants to be her sandal foot,
the sheer, the lace, the satin loop,
the shimmer of her ultrahigh
the shaded thigh that
glimmers barely black, barely there, black mist,
south pacific, silver smoke,
soft taupe, cocoa butter, little color, nude.
He wants her to know he’s thinking of her.
He’ll be her fine-rib, chevron-knit second skin,
the fishnet lace around her limbs.
Let her hold him to the light, slip her hand inside,
he will not ladder, run, or snag,
he’ll be her supple hose—ready, rinsed, and hung to dry. 