Buttons

They are plastic, despite what it says
on the packet. I flick them. They are sewn
to the cardboard, tugged through

with thick cotton, knotted at the back in white balls.
Above, the word IMPORTED is printed in capital letters.
They are pearl, opal, fake, and even though the dull

sky’s only just dragging itself through the window
they shine before my mole-like eyes.
I won’t snip them from their packaging,

split them apart, shove a needle through
the shank. Instead I’ll let my dress relax,
drift apart, so you can see the stitches

run in lines across my belly.