She articulates a dress like I a word—

She articulates a dress like I a word—
she fills it out, gives body to its form,
breathes life into its folds. I take the air
into my chest, my mouth is made a round

space to vibrate. Without her underneath
her clothes the words have no meaning, the dress
falls limp without the arms and legs, the curves
of her supporting it. She changes clothes

and pronunciation, the consonants
move on the ends of vowels. The motion
she is beneath the cloth is the obscured

reality of love. Personally,
I know her gross body, the roundedness
of throat, backness revealed in recitation.