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Clothes Make the Man but Women Make the Clothes
In matters of both clothes and hair
we profit from the use of flair.
A scarf, a pin, a tilted hat
reveal that we are more than what
we choose to put upon our heads
or bodies, for our hats or threads
too often conceal form or hair,
not showing what is under there.
Sometimes it’s an improvement, true:
our hair dyed an unfortunate hue
or bodies altered by midnight trips
kitchenward that spread our hips.
This gown I wear is brilliant red,
It spreads around me in my bed—
ankle-length and numinous,
free-flowing and voluminous .
I obscure my trunk and limbs in it.
My zaftig form just swims in it.
It makes me feel petite and small.
Inside, I’m hardly there at all!
When I awaken, I’m not alert,
throw off the covers, unwind the skirt
from where it’s twisted round my legs,
I yawn and blink to expunge the dregs
of sleep from everywhere it tries
to prolong my dreams and clot my eyes.
It’s in the bathroom where I see
I’ve made this gown uniquely me.
My reflection in the bathroom glass
shows its brilliant red en masse.
Its designer’s plan I clearly flout,
for I wear it inside out.
Again, I’ve gone shopping in my poetry closet. This one repeated from three years ago. The prompt today is blink.