Picking out the dress

I  frequently wondered about this moment

as if imagining an alien abduction

I knew you couldn’t be there

but maybe.


The gown in the window

facing West Silver Spring Drive –

I saw myself as


in Twelfth Night,

the dress had to

be mine.


My right hand shook

as if in fever

I opened the door,

“Please show me that dress in the window”



I slid my hands over the gown

as you see done in film

dropping the satin over my head, breasts and hips…

The seam brushed the carpet


back and forth

then still


Sleeves ivory and transparent

dipping at my wrists

like a pitcher,

babydoll stitching

gentle taffeta

like a quiet river

over my waist


Looking over my shoulder as if to see you there

I knew this was the dress

the mirrors knew

it was me, my glass of champagne and

the four surrounding


of glass.


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