A Brief History of Scandal
Emily Van Kley
Once, the zipper buzzed
with the smut
of invention: metal
slit slick with discipline
falling over itself
to advertise the body
beneath. Now, closing my
raincoat gets no one’s
feathers in a fluster. An
unzipped fly:
kind of germy, a
fool’s blunder.
We have to snake
zippers down the backsides
of blouses to imply
a lover’s hands halving
fabric. We have to extend
the zipper bust to hem,
sink it in latex, strip away
its placket. I like
a zipper placed on a bias,
which means I am hot
and not what you expected.
Or that I enjoy geometry.
When we were younger,
my love and I bought women’s
sleeping bags that zipped
together, touched
some corporate designer
thought of us. We were less
thought of, then.
The bags were called mummies.
Joined, they were suggestive
and stifling. We’d tangle
our legs as night fell but wake straining
against separate
cinches, arms stuck out
side vents, sheltered
close in our single garment,
reaching away.
