The Dress
Jonathan Moya
I saw him in his black suit,
a stiff memorial folder
half-out from the jacket pocket,
lift the dress from the closet rod
and prop it to his chest.
In that dim box of a room
the swivel mirror, angled wrong,
caught only his split outline.
He raised the hem
to his throat,
let the fabric settle
against his ribs.
The dress’s shadow
shifted across the wall.
He bunched it over his head,
and pulled it down.
turning once
to see how it followed.
When he let it drop,
the mirror—slow on its pivot—
held his shape a moment,
then released it
back into the room.
Leave a Reply