On Valentine's Day I Pick Up My Wedding Dress

Jane Satterfield

Dragged across a sculpted lawn, hem（边缘） half undone, 

 the Sophia Long Ivory Silk 

 was smeared with August grass. 

 A thrill to wear the Empire waist 

 with shirring at the bust, complete 

 crossover detail and tiny shoulder pleats-

 The bit of luxe（奢侈） I delayed for months 

 putting into the cleaner's hands-

I loved how it dangled 

 amid the darker palette of my wardrobe 

 with its tattered（破烂的） trail of stains—

 Prosecco, pollen, one niece's sandal print, 

 another's cookie smears ... 

Any of my black slip dresses would have done the job. 

 But my 'tween daughter said, 

It's supposed to be a celebration, Mom, 

 not a witch's Halloween. 

Several years ago she and I walked with you, 

 old friend, new love, along the Grand Canal. 

 A wedding party's passing 

 stopped the swirling crowds. 

 In upraised arms the unveiled bride 

 held her baby girl. Noonday sun, 

 the streets still puddled with the morning's tide. 

But her dress! Cat said, just eight, 

 thinking of ruined fabric, the dirt and grime,

 where I thought, The world's full bouquet. 

Today's poems in class were sex, 

 not love; sex and Singles' 

 Awareness Week. My cynics 

 beyond their years didn't even 

 Google Valentine, imprisoned bishop 

 who worked to keep lovers' hope aflame.

 I gave out chocolate, wishing for some 

 grand passion to sweep them away.