The dress hung on the back
of the bedroom door,
catching the light, like a
butterfly’s wing, a shed skin.
She stood, bare-footed,
in her nightdress, looking at it,
remembering the parts of her body
that stretched the fabric
– the swell of her breasts,
– the curve of her hips.
She stroked herself, stood
taller, did a little sashay.
Blue suited her, matched her eyes:
people often said so. The dress held
certain memories. Though it looked
lifeless now, it could conjure up
that evening, and others, especially
when it caught shafts of sunrise.
He slept there in the double bed,
unaware she had stirred.
But then, it wasn’t his memory.
Though he’d been there it wasn’t
him who’d pressed insistent hands
to her waist, made her breathless
on the dance floor and looked
down the top of her blue dress
as he’d whirled her round.
No, her man didn’t like to dance,
more’s the pity. At least the dress
didn’t tell tales, never spoke of a
time someone slid a hand up and
under or slipped the shoulders down
outside the dance hall. It was
her journal, this blue dress,
and like the furry bear she once had,
would keep its secrets.