~AMANDA AUCHTER~

WASTELAND OF PARTS

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My father dances with a woman
in his studio, shuffles his feet through

stacks of yellowed patterns and fabric.
I watch as he dips her, whispers in her ear.

They drag their shadows along the wall,
lean their bodies into each other.  I spin

with them, lose myself in the blue flare
of my skirt, the sting of straight pins

against my legs.  He lays her on the floor,
strokes her cheek, her hair.  She is

unbuttoned into whiteness, her nippleless
breast pure as sugar.  I am rooted

in this room of plastic bodies.  Unfasten
the women from their limbs, and their heads

come crashing down.  They know their limits—
know the value of a mannequin

is measured by the length of an arm
or an inseam, where the cuff of a pants leg

breaks across a foot.  I want to breathe
for them, climb under their skins, push

out through the bald tops of their heads.
I watch him fold their clothes, pack up

their brushes and slips.  Tonight, he slides off
their scarves and wigs, fractures them

into useless parts.  They are disconsolate
and mute, wide bruised eyes, lips the color

of faded scars.  This is where women come
to die, in this wasteland of parts.

We stack them into boxes, their pink heads
and torsos tumble into the blackness.

© by Amanda Auchter