Dressing Up


You came with your arms
Full of gifts
An elaborate costume
So fine it seemed
Spun of air and moonlight
But I could never
Make it fit
Those yards of lace
Held me in a heavy twist
I could not walk
Away from
That ruffled hem
Caught every step
In a cruel hobble
Those heavy rings
Made my fingers stiff
That lovely mask
Fit like a blindfold
Paring vision to a narrow strip
And curbed my tongue
Til each word stumbled
Through those rigid lips

So I have decided
Not to wear your gifts
All beautiful and wrong
As the embroidered slipper
For the bound foot
But to return them all
And keep to what I have
Warm and soft
Loose and comfortable
And plain enough
To let me do
The dancing





Options


The week before I started
my first real job
I went out with Mama
and bought five new dresses.
More than I’d ever had
at once, in school too
used to uniforms,
every day the same-
plaid skirt, white blouse,
grades one to eight,
then blue skirt, white blouse,
nine through twelve,
extras only needed
for weekends, for play
or church-
nothing much to fuss with.

I took those five new dresses
and hung them in my cupboard:
black dot, blue and white,
bold flowers, paisley print,
and sun yellow–
such luxury,
each day a choice to make-
introduction to a new world
where I would go alone
in the crowds on the busses,
and the crowds on the streets,
making my way into
an open space
ready for a woman
full of possibilities.





About That Ball


Don’t trust what the story says
those shoes weren’t made to fit
anyone. Imagine dancing in them,
tilted up and forward
always just about to fall,
trip, lose your balance,
end up flustered, up-ended
in someone’s lap, or arms,
your gait all unnatural
just another dainty hobble
on the order of the exotic
bound foot-
broken bones and suppurating flesh
hidden in exquisitely embroidered
tiny shoes.
Those slippers, made of glass,
so impractical
clicking across the floor
knowing one misstep
could shatter them
into a thousand sharp splinters,
that cut your soles to ribbons
as you walk.
If this is all the gift I get,
my one way ticket
out of the ash heap,
I’ll take a pass,
go scout out some
other road, some detour,
find some good hiking boots,
running shoes, soft moccasins,
that let me feel the earth
my foot strikes,
strong and solid, moving
to some new end
far from that old story’s
final step.