New Dress
Rachel Marie Talan
Tissues--
fallen soldiers of love
have surrendered,
their bodies scattered over the floor,
a trail from the bed
to the bathroom vanity.
Ben and Jerry,
beneath the bedside lamp,
are arguing who
has dibs on the silver lady,
lying at the nightstand’s edge.
The bed’s pillows are
wrinkled and angry
and the TV has
been on for days,
mourning the ends of
shows stuck in reruns,
characters never aging.
The walk-in closet
glows yellow
--a bulb about to burn out--
and hangers
are tangled bitterly
over the mouth of a
hungry hamper.
Then the front door clicks.
Footsteps up the stairs.
A box on the bed.
The TV off.
Purse slung
into a chair.
Zzzzzipp.
A look in the mirror
with a sudden smile says:
Nothing heals
a fractured heart
like the touch of
a new dress.
