To speak of the pink dress, boneless
like a confection puffed
inside the silver forgetting
(because of the way time
alone in her wandering
loops back upon herself
as if seeking a familiar face)
is to kiss life into the muffled pink years
twirl sliver-thin the child pink body
nest tented beneath November pink bedding
or slip unseen into vanishing pink sky.
Other colors have woven themselves through –
scarlet of secrets
blues of family portrait
white of sleep –
but I tried so hard to be pink,
to be worthy of pink.
the dress covers me seashell pink
lifts me to a wave cresting
swirls me into ocean foam between toes
until I am the familiar face.