During the final fitting
she let the gown slip
to the floor, revealing
somewhat more than
the freckles on her
broad swimmer’s back.
So typically bold of her,
whispered the women
behind the door—
seldom practical and
not very controlled,
always seems to be
missing an essential
part of the general idea.
Later, she told me she
agreed, until I reminded
her of the-dinner-party-
of-the-bare-shoulders,
where that late-summer
evening cast a watery
glow, the perfect backdrop
for her peridot-green silk,
the exact shade of greed,
mossy and golden as
drafty castle ruins on
a rumpled Irish cliff.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
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