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



what’s underneath. I want to walk down



the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store



with all those keys glittering in the window,



past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old



donuts in their café, 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 I’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, I’ll pull that garment



from its hanger like I’m choosing a body



to carry me into this world, through



the birth-cries and the love-cries too,



and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,



it’ll be the goddamned



dress they bury me in.





