Saturday, September 14, 2013

pink for a day






While visiting day birds from out of town
I discovered that they had made me a dress.
A gift of remembrance for when they die.
     
I attempted to explain that I
was not of the gender that they
had so meticulously
and craftily weaved me into.
          
A one piece,
knitted,
pink,
jumpsuit.

They were unable to comprehend
this logic that I was divulging for them
and instead offered me
mud pies and tea instead.

We ate the pies and they spoke of death,
death of those around us 
and before us
          
I hoped it wasn’t contagious.

Visiting people this familiar
with St. Peter’s office door
isn’t advisable
for the weak minded.
     
The conversations blew in and out
with the curtains. 
I found
myself eyeing the garment.
          
The fabric,
the care in its stitch,
the way the threading weaved itself
into a magical second skin.
The color seemed to shimmer
from tiny silver flecks
embedded in the knit.
          
I had no choice but to try it on.

I ignored the itch,
the constricting and pulling
of the fabric around my waist and chest.
The day birds cooed and cawed
over their creation,
commenting on adjustments
that were needed
to make it even more be-fitting
of its wearer.

I explained that the gender issue
had become a mute subject,
they quickly had me remove it
so it could be properly fixed
according to their standards.

I was assured of its prominence at my next visit.