Polka dotted dress fit tightly across
full hips with a ribbon pulled firm to shape
her frame. A mirror and a husband reflect
the white betweens of violets and yellows

and blues trapped in circle-from, spinning
frozen over washer-friendly cotton. And
blonde hair trimmed above the ear and pearl
earrings to match the whites of

cold skin and eyes. With black flats and baby-toes
underneath painted pink that would curl
when her groom came in bed. But a sadness
in her chest when she had taken off the

dress and after the dinner-party with ham
fresh and red wines and business friends
of the man (her husband). A sadness searing deep
within her, in bed, after her husband came

and her feet didn't curl  and he would roll over
and she would be awake. Insomnia
is when you wake reoccurring in the
night (the husband would say.) But she

wouldn't ever sleep, for months, she covered
the black bags under the blues
in her eyes with makeup from macy's
while the husband went to the firm in a new

cadillac and came home every week to steak
or ham fresh without noticing the lines beneath
her eyes. Every sunday she would cook
more food for the business

partners and cover more bags and black
sags with more makeup until macy's changed
their inventory so she drove
father away to find more flesh-colored coverup.