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     next