She was riding that bike
the day that she
died –
that steam-punk shiny
new machine –
that highwheel.
Her dress got caught between the wheel and the
frame
and you can’t
ride
a
bike
in
a
gown
when it is caught between
the
wheel and
the
frame
and the big wheel’s rotation drags down and down
and her name was
May
Primrose
Littledale.
The jacket she wore that day was new.
She wore that jacket
over her corset
and that steel circling her core
made
her
sit
tall and straight
as the wheel dragged her down and round
and you can’t
pedal fast when
you
can’t
breathe
wearing metal
knowing the
hard squeeze and
hard cobbled
streets.
They say
that her corset could
deflect a bullet, but I
tell you, that pretty soft
hat
did nothing for her when
her
head
met
the ground
that 48-inch wheel dragging her
round
and round.
Hands flail up and gossip flies
she was riding that bike the day she died
That was the day that
Primrose,
Littledale
May
passed away
in the
bent spokes,
tangled frame
and
broken chain
of
innovation.