The black dress stained the quilt 

dripping darkly into the seams -- 

my crooked callow stitches 

along her sagely straight ones. 

A distant laugh tickled my ears 

and I closed my eyes to forget; 

in my forgetting I remembered her

glorious grin reserved only for me.

The black dress, silky like a raven’s feathers 

felt like a betrayal to her memory; 

the woman I knew loved life -- 

both its prices and prizes; “I prefer green,” 

she had always said. In all my years 

she had never worn black; to wear it 

at her funeral would be an atrocious affront.

Decided, I slipped on something new. 

The green dress hung starkly for all to judge; 

my father in particular was unimpressed-- 

eyes narrowed, a dangerous promise. 

My mother hadn’t noticed, stuck in her head: 

her sad black dress didn’t fit her frail frame, too-long 

sleeves hanging like broken wings off her thin arms. 

“Why green?” my father spoke softly, angrily. 

I lifted my chin. “It’s the color of life.”

The green dress was my armor against the harsh 

talons of my father digging into my shoulder. 

“Mara, would you like to say something?” 

My heart fluttered like a trapped bird against my ribcage, 

voice sealed away with it. If only I knew of a key. 

“Mara?” My eyes focused on the flock of ravens 

before me, gathered to ‘mourn’ a women they claimed 

to have known; their dark feathers laid bear the truth.

The green dress melded to my skin with sweat 

as I listened to my father, apple of the congregation's eye, 

take on the tortured role of a grieving son-in-law, 

preening under the crowd’s sympathy. In my 

periphery, my mother seemed smaller than ever. 

Her eyes met mine, a look of helplessness carving 

harsh lines into her face. She glances briefly away 

to survey the flock, lips pursed, before looking back to me.

The green dress is the next object for her gaze. 

Under her scrutiny, a terrifying longing lodges in my heart. 

Run. I take a step forward. Run. Another. Run run run runrunrunru- 

I take off, ripping my father’s grip off my shoulder.

Jumping off the platform, I feel the air push up against me 

and I feel as if I might fly. I hit the ground hard, 

my glorious green dress billowing around me. I run,

riding the wings of my grief away from the voices demanding that I land.