18 April 2009

poem-a-day...day eight

She Dresses

She sits up slowly
on the edge of your bed,
wearing nothing but a gauze bandage
as a reminder she is mortal.
She has long hair, ripples of brown
and red and silver.
She wears it
down, either
because she thinks
you prefer it that way
or because she uses it
as a curtain through which she flows, head bent
forward and chin tucked under, bobbing
like a bottle caught in the current.
You raise her arms
and pull the blue dress over
her head, leaning in
you lift her hair like
a veil, and kiss her papery
the smell of her skin so
far from pain, the dosing
of pills,
you’re in lavender
up to your knees,
tentative, but no longer
needing to be sure.

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