Julie Newmar, Peignoir 1962. (c) Vintage Vogue
Soul
Loftus Marais
why does everyone assume the soul lives inside?
hidden like your skeleton, only smaller
like a gland or a jewel
or a sip of clear sky held in forever…
for me it’s more like a kind of peignoir
liquid, satiny and radiant
worn while I’m combing my hair
my drag dress, my sacred night gown
I wear while piously pacing the room
like a young gloria swanson…
it is never stained
but sometimes it gets dry-cleaned (just in case)
after a Sunday brunch in my spring garden:
low-fat milk, organic honey, apples
on a table set as if for a wedding
at night in my home: my soul draped
over a chair or the knob of a locked door
behind which I commit all kinds of sin
without soul and giggling
all body
[Translated by Johann de Lange]
