I wore a white dress, a gift
from my mother that rippled and
curled in lissome longing for a lost
time. In my lap I traced a friendly
flower bud, aching with
acquaintance. It was possibly
a pattern from another dress I wore
when I was little
and my bitsy body simply
wiggled away from its woes. I have
the same haircut today as I did
when I was three. I don’t remember
fear from then. Now, it leaves my eyes red
and in all that white I must look to others
like a recreant rat.
Outside, erect against the wind
as my dress bracketed my body I pictured
my skin as flour. It was whispered away,
spread and stuck snugly in new
crevices, carried to unknown
locations. I knew then that feeling tremendous
and tiny are the same, and despite the parting
of my particles, I would always keep with me
those white gifts
from my mother.
