nthposition online magazine

Mr Dior Cherie & The usherette

by Camellia Stafford

[ poetry - january 09 ]

Mr Dior Cherie

Sales of mascara triple in a flutter of your lashes,
the utterance of another heartfelt darling.
Your sugared voice lilts a luminous syrup of gloss
from the counterís miniature island of beauty
where you reign. A fair and loyal king -
taking your subjects hands in your own
to smooth them with illuminator, base, bronzer,
easing their problems with the new shade for nails.
You freshen their perspective with a little wisdom
and the summer fragrance, seeming never to tire
of notes of orange, patchouli.
            In the lull, you make higher
your silver towers, re-arrange a selection of wands
while admonishing the princess of Lancome
for falling asleep last night with her make-up on.

 

The usherette

Tucks the pale grey shirt into the skirt of her uniform
from The Cameo cinema theatre, draws the zip up
to where a hook and eye she sewed in herself
nestle one another, anticipate to be held in metallic love.
She clasps them together, recalling her knitting
on the side.
       The needles jut from her handbag, their ends
shading marks in the shallow plush of her felt jacket
as she walks to catch the matinee shift.
                       Tickets illuminate
in the beam of her torchlight, half smiles, the letters of rows,
little spillages of popcorn and seat numbers.
                         Settles for the film,
a ball of white wool drowsing in her lap, its thread a jerky
dancer in the dark to the rhythm of purl, knit stitched across
the rows. The silken tap of metal unheard beneath the score
as her needles cross their kisses in the back row.