Pink Dress

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.

So then;
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.

Ellen Bihler