Wrap Dress

Dinner of kidney and oranges.
She is now, as before, in a geometric wrap dress.
The garden is a patch with a rake in it. Tell him that
you’re pregnant. Don’t you know anything?
Let the man finish his dinner in peace.
Let him complete his warm beer. Later,
secure a black veil, kneel before
the lit throat of a candle. Beg forgiveness
for the thing you haven’t done yet. Say it
in the tongue your mother might’ve taught.
Who are you this time? – with the flower
opening like a door in your cheek, a bouquet
of horsewhips full-blooming in your right hand.

Rachel Long

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