Ball Gown (Poetry)

I have a dress I look at — never wear —
it was not bought for use but for the dream
of dancing with a prince or dashing rogue
waltzing under some high-vaulted dome
in fantasy’s great ballroom crystal-lit.

A younger slimmer more vivacious self
fits that bodice — breathes within its bones
struts with shoulders proud and bosom pearled
as though a duchess born to acres green
and all the silk long Asian roads might bring.

Its skirts the midnight blue of eastern skies —
weightless as the billowed clouds they float
a dozen layers gathered to my waist
of twenty inches — one for every year
hem scalloped round and trimmed with Brussels lace.

Perfect on its hanger while the light
shimmers like a promise and my feet
find a far-off tune — I shut my eyes
dance with someone handsome and we glide
effortless — that enchanted gown — a ghost of me inside.