Queen of Spade
I‘m getting ready for the wedding,
I put on my black dress.
It’s long, elegant
and full of grace.
I struggle to get into it.
Others around me
seem arranged
and ready for the wedding. Elegantly, swiftly, and gracefully running past
and around me.
Family and friends.
Equipped strangers.
As I battle
with the elegance,
grapple with the grace,
untrained in the beauty
of my elegant black dress.
My legs feel weighted,
I realize my ordinary clothes lie underneath
my dress. Stiff, unfashionable, heavy.
A brown tank top.
Two bras~ one with an underwire, another
just stifling me.
Layers of disheveled
rolled-up garments
to sort through,
to hassle with.
I don‘t remove
my black dress,
I just work on
getting them off.
The elegant black dress covers me. I notice everyone’s attending
the wedding before me.
I feel them brush by me,
the room empties ….
I sense the heaviness
of my frame,
the miscarried black dress.
I look at myself for awhile,
and the long mirror knows.
I put on makeup,
fix my hair,
find some jewelry, movements that
have been memorized,
yet are not a part of me.
I smooth out the elegance.
I fix my straps,
and look for grace.
I stare at myself.
I am the last one.
In a beautiful elegant dress
late to the wedding.