The Fitting

The fitter said, “Madame, vous avez maigri,”
And pinched together a handful of skirt at my hip.
“Tant mieux,” I said, and looked away slowly, and took my
under-lip
Softly between my teeth.

                          Rip—rip!
Out came the seam, and was pinned together in another
place.
She knelt before me, a hardworking woman with a familiar
and unknown face,
Dressed in linty black, very tight in the arm’s-eye and smell-
ing of sweat.

She rose, lifting my arm, and set her cold shears against
me,—snip-snip;
Her knuckles gouged my breast. My drooped eyes lifted
to my guarded eyes in the glass, and glanced away as
from someone they had never met.

“Ah, que madame a maigri!” cried the vendeuse, coming in
with dresses over her arm.
“C’est la chaleur,” I said, looking out into the sunny tops of
the horse-chestnuts—and indeed it was very warm.

I stood for a long time so, looking out into the afternoon,
thinking of the evening and you. . . .

While they murmured busily in the distance, turning me, touching my secret body, doing what they were paid to do.