Eilín de Paor

            Once he had asked and I said yes, we flew

            to London, Mum and I, budget, red-eye,

            trawled the costumeries of Soho,

            the Liberty remnant troughs, returning that night

            with six metres of duck-egg satin, two of lace chiffon.

            We borrowed a form from her friend Joann

            and for six months, I shared

            a bedroom with that silent twin, 

            draped in muslin mock-ups, pinned

            with panels of interfacing, lining.

            I worked with ceremony

            in cotton gloves like a magician—

            shaping cap sleeves, scoop neck, empire line,

            added thirty covered buttons along the spine, 

            three hidden tapes to bustle up the train.

            Afterwards, the dress became a headless Havisham

            stuffed pert with acid-free tissue paper

            in a vacuum-sealed box with viewing panel,

            waiting in the attic for a daughter to claim her

            and now, failing that, staying on as ballast.