She dreams of a room overflowing with clothing.
Ivory crochet wraps and rose taffeta skirts
draped like fainting ladies across a desk and chair,
cheap sharp-heeled shoes, glittering, proud, strewn
onto the floor, earrings gleaming thickly
in handsome boxes against the wall.
Waking, she feels bereft. He’s bought her
a pair of washed-out jeans and blistering flats,
a hoodie, the seams on its sleeves already unraveling
like their last conversation, or maybe her desire.
But she wants shoes built for strutting,
a dress that she can die and make love in,
a little number tight enough to persuade angels to raise hell
to the heavens. She wants to walk
into that dream-room and choose an outfit
like she is choosing a destiny, or a compass
to guide her through the crowded streets of her eager heart
and then she wants to walk back out into a world
that chooses her every single time.