Of course I didn’t know it was a slip
till he told me, only knew how it felt
when I put it on in the dressing room:
the cool fabric air-kissing my curves.
I wore a word caught on the tip of a tongue,
drips from a hand dipped in holy water.
I wasn’t picturing punch and mylar balloons;
I was in a film, lying in a damp field
at daybreak. Even in the harsh light,
and when the lace trim tore when I tore
off the tag, the liquid shine turned the satin
silk. It was an inconsolable pink, pink
of newborn flesh waiting for fur.
There’s no slipping back into the skin
of that girl who saw, in such cheap
scrap, a gown—she’s on the balcony
of my life clicking her chipped glitter nails
against the rail, unable to hear me yelling
up to her, or worse, ignoring the call.