satin ovenbird When asked what she would dress herself in she said cotton. Something soft and unassuming. Nothing to pinch or catch or chafe. Nothing constricting. Given the choice she would dress herself in the oversized t-shirt she bought at a convenience store somewhere in the far north. She loves that t-shirt. Shapeless, yes, but she feels so free draped in all that blue sky, reminder of days spent in a wild place, screen print still fresh and white and clean. She would choose the t-shirt every time. He comes home with satin. Like a second skin. She puts on the costume, a shining shift of melted chocolate. She’s a fondue fountain. She's a Dairy Milk left on the dash. She's slipping, down into the space between the headboard and the mattress, into the dark where the dust bunnies live. A voice from somewhere says, “you look nice,” and she sees herself in a mirror selfie she took in a hotel in Sudbury, smiling in the blue shirt, beautiful, with no eyes but her own to see. 260904 what's it to you? who go blather from