untitled so far

Black dress metaphors + WASP imagery=I watch too much Gossip Girl and I'm madly...smitten.

-d

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You are the seam I don’t want to rip out.
I’ve re-sewn this black dress again and again;
the style has changed with me.
It started as a moon-shaped collar,
but it became a neckline as low as a drowned man
and the black satin lay strewn on the cutting room floor.
It was a dirty movie I never wanted to see again.

I’ve made some cuts
taken it in and stretched it out
crazy stitched a red heart
that looked more like the burning end of an expensive cigarette.

I wore it to Gatsby’s summer parties
a black hole in white-hot August
the sweat and wine blotting out the fabric
like an exploding feather pen.
The sun burned my shoulders
and all of old money New York saw me plunge into the pool.
I made a spectacle of myself
just as I planned it.

I met you on a yacht in the racing red heart of Indian summer.
All their couture eyelids opened to watch the idiot
throw herself off the edge in a deafening splash
but you pulled at my sweater
and I fell back on deck.

What started as yet another cheap performance,
yet another manic fit
soon became what some call love
(but I’m not sure.)

Carl Sandburg’s cat cleans himself in my apartment
as we create chills for ourselves, a magnificent fever.
You made me a perfect tailor
on a dark dance floor.