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on the edge of central park
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even the met's posters seemed to portend the experience
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the museum where i took yoga as a child,
and wrote poetry in classes in the medieval rooms
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hosts alexander mcqueen's work,
a personal hero of mine.
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i literally cried from the first room,
where the mannequins were more like creatures,
speaking of his mind and mourning his loss:
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the "oyster" gown from the shipwreck collection,
made from 260 yards of circular cut chiffon.
a victorian bride,
beached by alexander's imagination.
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one of my favorite gowns ever,
live,
before me:
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the accessories room was a treasure box of oddities,
each more sculptural than the last:
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scottish nationalism,
rape and royalty,
all rolled together.
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you were NOT supposed to take pictures.
but how could i resist?
the details alone called out to be captured!
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rumored to be the last design he touched before he took his life,
gold hand painted duck feathers.
if you see the divine, must you leave?
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from a mind like this, came such great beauty:
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