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LAce Posted Monday, June 16th, 2003
Elle
Sabine Boucher

Well, we’re wearing the same dress again. I wonder
what about this one took her in. She must have thought
it made her seem one year older, my own several

years ago. For me, it was capped sleeves: prize
for the loveliest arms. I’ve always liked how the breastbone
seems to reach toward shoulders’ glory, a preflight

pulling back of wing, preened, self as emerald green
silk, as shine, as the very green light that ripples every party.
I’ve never worn green before. When the strobe comes on,

she gyrates green as a nightmare and I slip into the hall, talk
to a stranger about the man who invented the fanny pack
and later I’ll wish I’d told him something more. One day

in later life, after we’ve found our stories of men
all bereft and overturned, Elle and I will also talk.
She’ll respectfully pour my beer, dip her body

into the table and what will I tell her, in all my leaning
and hovering then? Forgive me neighbor, for watching
you so closely all these years, but I thought I saw the ocean

move in the curve of your elbow. It was there,
below the tumbles of your bodice, unfurling underbelly
of a wave.
I wonder what color we’ll be wearing then.

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