|Sept/Oct 1999 Poetry|
Tearing the sashes off all
the other little girls’ dresses,
polka dots and plaids and calicos:
your idea of a bright
hoofed hurricane with all those sashes
streaming out behind you
eagle feathers, dancers’ scarves,
a red stallion’s tail.
Your mother tried to explain
to all those little girls’ mothers
about the damaged dresses.
But she never asked you
about the joy of flashing sashes.
She only saw the small fabric
mouths gaping at the waist,
and all the mending to do.