I’m sure to wear my pantyhose,
the nude, sensible kind—snag free,
professional, and I smooth my skirt down.
You won’t find me now with my knees
and their knobby faces, their shamey pink flesh.
I burned myself to a magenta flush
my first ironing job, the whole
3-jointed siding of one finger puckered up,
then off. Like a bloom. Or a kiss.
I’ve got it down pat: pleats,
darts, cuffs and collars.
I have closed-toed pumps.
I don’t think of you 9-5.
Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared in Midwest Quarterly, Foundling Review, Sheepshead Review, Sierra Nevada Review, and Bop Dead City. She is the managing editor of cahoodaloodaling, a interview editor and book reviewer at Up the Staircase Quarterly, and an editorial intern for Sundress Publications.