I wear your dress

this is just to tell you that i wear your dress sometimes

the one you made with the gold brocade and the empire waistline

you fitted to your figure when it looked just like my own

that was jersey in the fifties, and the women stayed at home

so you laid your paper pattern on the table in between

the silverware and napkins and the harper's magazines

from a slow suburban season that is nothing but a dream

to your granddaughter

this is just to tell you that i wear your dress sometimes

i wear it down to the bar in town and dance around all night

talking and joking, swearing and smoking like any stranger in a crowd

and nobody stares, nobody cares to tell me i'm not allowed- i am allowed

and my body, by the letter of the law, is still my own

when i lay down in the darkness, unburdened and alone

with the liberty you've given like the clothing you've outgrown

to your granddaughter

this is just to tell you that i wear your dress sometimes