My Mother's Dress

I

Grandma admired Rita Hayworth,
a woman who could drive men mad, a red-head like herself.

She made the dress at the kitchen table,
of clover pink silk crepe shot with gray mutable
as the fading of sunset. Halter-necked, backless,
bodice luxuriously ruched, a trail of tiny buttons ran down,
and the skirt fish-tailed deliriously from the knees.

It was my grandmother's masterpiece.

In the mean little parlor, I saw my mother model it for my father.
He said: If you go out in that you'll be raped.

II

I know where she keeps it.

In their bedroom, in the bottom of the chest-of-drawers
I feel under the cold linen. It is like
the skin of a long pale pink fish,
slithering from under the folded bedding.

Naked, I step into her gown,
twelve years old, not needing to undo
any of the twenty four buttons,
pulling the halter over my head,
smoothing the oyster satin over my narrow hips.
In front of the mirror I turn
and look over my shoulder at the plunge
of the back that shows half my bottom.
One day I will fill out the cups of the bodice.
Even now my hair is long and wavy, chestnut-red.

III

I was fifteen when she did it.

I pleaded: I could wear it myself
when I was older, but she was determined.

Out came Grandma's black tailor's shears,
the dress spread on the floor
showing all the complexity and strength
of its reverse, seams still firm and even,
the base of each hand-made button loop
set into the smooth lining like baby teeth.

My mother cut
without a pattern, big rough looking squares
hacked out. As the fabric gave way
it crunched under the steel
like fine stems of dried grass, or tiny bones.