Burning the Dress I'm In

This rotten, rotten dress

Sits on me still,

Full in June.

A dark gray on my purple plum

Molds itself to the crevices of my brown body:

Phenomenally, I have always worn this.

Steadily,

A shy flame,

Slight flutter of heat,

Barely orange, barely sweet

Starts hungry, to eat the fabric:

Flames knitting with patient heed

Weaving, they dare not touch my skin,

They dare not disturb its wretched breathing

Blinded by an angel white anger they tear

Hole after hole into my cloth

Their righteous fingers ripping

A new kind of heaven for me to wear.

Under the scorching lick of the flame

Still, here I stand, firmly anchored,

As if the dancing of sand under my feet

Was as solid as stone,

Here I stand, transformed by the will of my hand

The strength of my gaze an explosion of senses,

Battle of paint brushes on an already full canvas.

Two colors stand, untouched, unsullied

A deep purple embracing a beaten, bruised

Shade of brown

Softly whispering tales and trails of laughter

Conniving like two little thieves

Of what next, they would survive,

Together,

My purple and my brown

Legs steady and heart full,

Hand in hand on a trembling cliff