Did she ever go naked under that mink
For herself, or someone else’s pleasure?
Did she lounge in the mint green silk
‘At Home’ in Manhattan
Or in suburban Philly,
Or the backwoods of New Jersey?
Did she lord it over her crowd, if she had a crowd,
Her Armani dresses and Chanel ball gowns
Carrying garment finishes
So codified in name and execution
That familiarity with the nomenclature
Is a pass code to fashion’s inner sanctum:
Grosgrain trim, nutria fur,
Tonal stitching, chamfered corners.
Did these details please her?
Who was she whose designer treasures
Are up for auction now,
Fitted onto headless, Barbie-doll-style forms
With shoeless, tipped-up feet,
And thrust out breasts
Not possible to accomplish
Without a bullet bra.
Who was she whose clothing misdemeanors
Are exposed in the published details
Of each auction Bid Lot:
Interior collar with light discoloration. . .Brown discoloration–likely liquid stain on upper left area of skirt on front running down side – from description of Victor Costa ensemble
Who was she whose perspiration stains these labels,
Whose memories reside in these scarves and handbags,
Whose friends and lovers touched these fabrics,
Whose persona is a ghost.