BY KIM ADDONIZIO
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
whatâ€s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thriftyâ€s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their cafÃ©, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like Iâ€m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, Iâ€ll pull that garment
from its hanger like Iâ€m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and Iâ€ll wear it like bones, like skin,
itâ€ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
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