What the Girl Wore

Kathleen Driskell

At the store, on the hanger, the blue dress must have fallen

 like water to a froth of frilled hem, its bodice as smocked

 as a christening gown. A season out of date, her mother chose it

 from our local department store chiefly for the high collar,

 but I knew it was a dress Lisa wouldn’t have been caught

 dead in. Just hidden under the neckband of lace, the circle

 of her purple necklace, each dark bead a fingertip of efficient

 bruise that we already knew about anyway, and simply went on

 imagining, as we, her classmates, filed past the white coffin.