I picked pink so my white hair
and the virgin dress wouldn’t
spur comments. How I loved
its sparkling teflon brush-off.
Neighbors, pesky as flying
monkeys, smiled past, unspeaking.
Its uncrushable skirt was my
fenced-off yard, barely within
zoning. It protected me from those
with a tendency to lean in.
The question of what to wear
ever after never came.
Even out of fashion, not
the basic black, the blue-checked
bride-to-be with her basket,
her effortless ingenue
braids. I wore tulle all over,
down every yellow bricked aisle,
every emerald minute.

Sister Havisham, did you
know you can replace it, shop
with the crowd for brand new
duplicate selves? You can look
almost like everyone else,
only better, as long as
you’re like everyone else. Size
doesn’t matter, long as you
already fit. Please, dear, don’t
go there. I’ll help with buttons,
my dress is gathering road dust,
and I’m done. Please, take mine.

Sarah Ann Winn