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.

josephmcabral.com

dead letters for living people