My dress is lime green, the school photograph
black and white, me in second grade, beaming
anger--teacher removing the red crayon
from my left-handed
hand.
Right fingers gripping to snap it--
flashbulb blinds. My bangs slant
left to right when you look straight
at the photo, slanting opposite
at home, Mother carelessly
scissoring reserve
negatives...of Father misloving me, nightly
smile tumbling upside
down, nightgown falling inside out.
I loved that dress, puffy
sleeves, embroidered polka dots, cotton lace
circling my neck. I wonder if even one button
remains in a distant Jersey landfill under
soiled crinolines, melted Crayolas, forgotten
hopscotch rhymes, those severed
rabbit feet rubbed for luck.
Maybe a thread wafted
south to a girl in Sucre, Bolivia
who twined it round
her left wrist for better luck...
that dress beautifully
centered in the frame
as hands, hair, childhoods
tilt precariously. Maybe,
hemmed, it waits in limbo
for dust to settle...to surface in air, in light,
blossoming a grove of fragrant limes.

 (copyright 2003 by Sue William Silverman)