The Red Dress

Myra Schneider

My first reaction is: I want it,

can’t wait to squeeze into

a scarlet sheath that promises

breasts round as russet apples,

a waist pinched to a pencil,

hips that know the whole dictionary

of swaying, can’t wait 

to saunter down an August street

with every eye upon me.

But the moment I’m zipped in

I can’t breathe and the fabric 

hugging my stomach without mercy

pronounces me a frump.

Besides, in the internet café,

where you can phone Tangiers

or Thailand for almost nothing

fourteen pairs of eyes

are absorbed by screens.

No one whistles when I smile

at boxes of tired mangoes 

and seedy broccoli heads 

outside the Greek superstore.

By now I’m in a fever to undo

the garment and pull it off.

And for all its flaws, for all

that it only boasts one breast,

I’m overjoyed to re-possess

my body. I remember I hate 

holding in and shutting away.

What I want is a dress easy

as a plump plum oozing

juice, as a warm afternoon

in late October creeping 

its ambers and cinnamons into

leaves, a dress that reassures 

there’s no need to pretend, 

a dress that’s as capacious 

as generosity, a dress that willingly

unbuttons and whispers in the ear:

be alive every minute of your life. 

-o0o-