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 |