Queen of Spade

I‘m getting ready for the wedding,

I put on my black dress.

It’s long, elegant and full of grace.

I struggle to get into it.

Others around me seem arranged

and ready for the wedding. Elegantly, swiftly, and gracefully running past and around me.

Family and friends.

Equipped strangers.

As I battle with the elegance,

grapple with the grace,

untrained in the beauty

of my elegant black dress.

My legs feel weighted,

I realize my ordinary clothes

lie underneath my dress.

Stiff, unfashionable, heavy.

A brown tank top.Two bras~

one with an underwire, another just stifling me. Layers of disheveled rolled-up garments to sort through, to hassle with.

I don‘t remove my black dress,

I just work on getting them off.

The elegant black dress covers me. I notice everyone’s attending

the wedding before me.

I feel them brush by me,

the room empties ….

I sense the heaviness of my frame,

the miscarried black dress.

I look at myself for awhile,

and the long mirror knows.

I put on makeup, fix my hair,

find some jewelry, movements that have been memorized,

yet are not a part of me.

I smooth out the elegance.

I fix my straps, and look for grace.

I stare at myself.

I am the last one.

In a beautiful elegant dress

late to the wedding.