While the kids are away, her husband
gone, the 47 year old, whose hair once
riveted the world's desire, walks into
her daughter's closet. A bundle
of clothes at her feet, streams of
blue jean, leather, spandex-garments
that keep out eternity and old age.
The two knots for breasts, the firm-calved
beauty that once was, the red-rimmed
eyes soaked in perfume and cigarette smoke.
It hurts to see her now, bent over,
fumbling over sequin blouses, short-
skirts, g-strings. She snuggles her
feet into high heels, waltzes across
the room, arms spread, back
straight, twirling. And for a moment
she is a flame, a gust of wind in an
alleyway. Among these clothes, she
is alive again. Her face changing
under the moving sun, her heart
an open fist despite the gray
inside her bones.