On Saturday nights, my mother
took off her blue jeans,
put on a red satin dress
with a wide circle skirt
that swished when she danced.
Or, a black brocade sheath dress
with a peplum of white lace
and rhinestone earrings
that jangled like ice cubes.
Or, to backyard parties, a pink
waffle pique with a sewn-in
brassiere and laces up the back.
In springalator high heels,
open at the toe, she twirled
across the patio onto the grass,
unwinding like a bolt of organza,
her Tabu perfume simmering
in the torchlight, she danced
past the clothesline, past the built-in
barbecue, past the ornamental
fish pond, turning
into herself for the night.
© by Donna Hilbert.
Used with the author’s permission.
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