Picture a stunning bride in white
covered in blood. Days of suffering
come to an end, in violence.
When I thought about dresses
for the dead, my tangent took me
faraway from fact. A group made
sixty-eight dresses, one for every woman
in our area murdered by her partner
so far this year. Why mess
around with metaphors? It’s enough
to think they went courtesy of someone
once admired and loved.
What do angels wear? Gossamer
trails, pale as air, or suits of silver
to bulletproof the bare. There’s
a narrow ribbon of white, connecting
angels to new clothes back here.
Woman can’t wait around in dungeons
yearning for a knight to conquer the beast.
It’s too late, the woman are dead.