The Closet

There's a dress in the dry cleaning,

still there after two years—

a blue silk thing I bought

when I still believed in those fears.

My mother asked me yesterday

when I'm going to settle down.

I told her I wasn't everyone,

told her I was leaving this town.

The dress is still there behind plastic,

taking up space, taking my fees,

a monument to the wedding that never was,

a proof of my own unease.

I could pick it up tomorrow.

I could throw it out today.

But I keep walking past the dry cleaner,

keep the dress as the price I pay.

My coworker's getting married next month.

I won't go. I already know.

The dress will hang there blue and perfect,

waiting for me to grow.

But I'm not going to change.

I've made sure of it.

I'll keep paying the bill

and that's the end of it.