The Dress She Wears

It rides the slow curve of her hips
pulls tight against them as she walks
her gait confined to conscious steps.
Not long enough to be lady-like,
too long to be whorish, it falls
heavily over tired thighs, licking
the tops of her knees.  The neckline
plunges.  A greedy vice, it squeezes
the bulk of her heavy breasts up
until they spill out for all to see.
Its coarse and jealous-green fabric
scratches her most delicate places
rubbing them raw, I know, until
her skin weeps a salty pink.
Made before we were born, it is
given us by our mothers and theirs
before.  It suits us just the same.
The dress she wears is thin as skin
and frayed beyond repair.  Lined
with fear and trimmed with guilt,  
I put mine on each morning, as if
it were the only one I'll ever need.