Poetry

By Naomi Pulver

Sunday Dress

It was my Sunday dress,

adorned in roses

like the roses that adorned Christ’s head.

It was my Sunday dress,

Translucent and light

like the rush of pink behind

my pale cheeks.

It was my Sunday dress,

torn and tattered,

over worn and tired,

long after Sunday had passed.

It was my Sunday dress, and then suddenly,

all at once,

it wasn’t.

Red

A fly buzzed around my head

as I sat with my legs knotted together.

It didn’t come in like thunder,

but rather the sound of a closing shutter

as I grappled with the idea of the

weather.

With the fly weaving in and out of my ear

I thought of last night and

how the static came down in sheets.

And drenched me.

saturated.

Imbued my skin with electricity.

And as if I couldn’t hear my own thoughts,

you asked why I kept screaming my mother’s name.

Melting steel to my jaws,

barbed wires of iron tusks,

I cranked my mouth shut

and with it the T.V turned off.

Tell me,

you crooned, pulling a lace of ribbon,

dripping honey colored thoughts.

One look at it and your face twisted,

your lips mouthed disgust.

My cheeks turned an amber red

like the cherries you gave me for my birthday–

The red balloons,

the red confetti,

the red lines marked across my body.

I grinded my bones and felt my skin slip off my torso,

how robes slip off shoulders,

how skirts fall to ankles

when cities begin to crumble.

Tell me, tell me, tell me.

The fly weaved through my ear.

I shot it down.

I walked over to the birthday balloons

and popped them to rid of the stale air.

Just one less thing floating over my head.

Naomi Pulver will be graduating from Roaring Fork High School this year. She is 18 years old and enjoys long walks on the beach, playing music, singing, and being outside.