August 2018
Donna Reis
freshpoetry@earthlink.net
freshpoetry@earthlink.net
Note: On December 12th, 2017, my beloved husband, musician and composer, Tom Miller, passed away after one of the bravest battles against prostate cancer all who knew him ever witnessed. I want to thank the Verse-Virtual community for being there for me during these difficult times.
Mexican Embroidered Dress
I. August, 1973
When my father went to Mexico
to coax Mom back, she sent him home
with a peasant dress to give me in her place.
Full-length of bleached muslin, satin-stitched
red, purple, orange and coral flowers with green
stems and leaves bloomed across its yoke.
An embroidered repeat of bouquets tied
in yellow ribbons spilled down its front,
separated in the middle, by two love birds--
one blue and red and one fuchsia and red.
I hung it in my closet to admire, afraid
I'd betray my father if I wore it.
II. June, 1974
Your chariot awaits you, Tiger, my doctor grinned,
I've arranged for an ambulance to bring you
to your graduation. My father and surrogate mother
slipped the embroidered shift over my sutured belly,
fractured pelvic and casted legs like Disney birds
dressing Cinderella. Anxious I'd ruin my dress
or the day, I squelched throwing-up throughout
the jostling ride. At the football field, they gurneyed
me past goalposts to the dais, then lifted me
into a wheelchair. My father gave the benediction,
as the principal lowered a basket of flowers
onto my lap. Two plaster feet peered
from the dress's hem like white doves,
legs elevated like wings.
I. August, 1973
When my father went to Mexico
to coax Mom back, she sent him home
with a peasant dress to give me in her place.
Full-length of bleached muslin, satin-stitched
red, purple, orange and coral flowers with green
stems and leaves bloomed across its yoke.
An embroidered repeat of bouquets tied
in yellow ribbons spilled down its front,
separated in the middle, by two love birds--
one blue and red and one fuchsia and red.
I hung it in my closet to admire, afraid
I'd betray my father if I wore it.
II. June, 1974
Your chariot awaits you, Tiger, my doctor grinned,
I've arranged for an ambulance to bring you
to your graduation. My father and surrogate mother
slipped the embroidered shift over my sutured belly,
fractured pelvic and casted legs like Disney birds
dressing Cinderella. Anxious I'd ruin my dress
or the day, I squelched throwing-up throughout
the jostling ride. At the football field, they gurneyed
me past goalposts to the dais, then lifted me
into a wheelchair. My father gave the benediction,
as the principal lowered a basket of flowers
onto my lap. Two plaster feet peered
from the dress's hem like white doves,
legs elevated like wings.
©2018 Donna Reis
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