My third wedding dress. No to lace but yes to ivory.
And bamboo.

No silk, poor worms.

It floats around me like a 57-year-old dream.
Pearls dangle from lobes that have lengthened with time.

My first one worn in Santa Fe was the colour of Emerald.
Made from Jersey cotton, full of fl are, loose girth.

Hiding a future birth. Hand painted by the groom.
We never bloomed, baby tombed.

My second dress, chocolate velvet and Doc Martins.
A city of roses, Portland.

I left for another not long aft er the “I do’s.”

What a cruel fool I was.

Twenty years on I am grown. A self that has some wisdom.
And some kindness.

My elves and fairy god-ma’s taught me well.

Now I can say yes.

And yes.

And yes again:

Dress of ivory and pearl.
Polishing my listening womb-heart
My groom rising from the sea.

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