‘Wasn’t It All Twinkly When We Sang Happy Birthday?’

Marilyn Monroe’s ‘Happy Birthday, Mr President’ dress
sells for record $4.8m – BBC News

I hated the storage years,
each of my hand-stitched crystals
dulled by moths and cobwebs.
I craved Madison Square again,
the night they sewed you in
to my rib-chafing tightness,
my flesh-coloured brashness.
Under the lights, you shrugged
your fur from me with a shimmy
and the chainmail of my jewels
became your battle dress. At first
those at the back of the room
believed you were nude. At thirty-six,
they said you’d grown softer,
but the outlines of your silvery
bones glinted with a new sharpness.
I clasped you tight as a corset,
until your ribcage swelled
and your breath strained its way out:
your voice little more than a gasp
and a pant at first – so low,
like you were sharing a secret,
but those tones cut the night air
like a scythe. You were down
to your last few months. This stage
was our temple: you stomped
your feet to the beat of the drum
and backstage powerful men trembled.