Canticle In The Fish's Belly

How to get to it: the heart within the corset made of whalebone and Parisian leaded satin, winter weight. I can barely breathe. Sun filters from high windows into this dark-paneled room where my sister helps me step into the skirt, our grandmother’s grandmother’s sent-for dress, its pinprick satin buttons down my chest. We hook each hook to hold the corset flush, to anchor the bustle, as she did for her quiet February wedding, snow covering the steeple of the Seamen’s Bethel. Melville:This, shipmates, is that other lesson: fasten the locks, hold the heart within its watery chamber. When the seamstress slid the bone into the bodice and pinned each cut piece together, the satin stood upright at the sewing table. She could almost see it breathe. I am swallowed and swallowed whole. It outlasts all our vows.