the habit of being

The crumpled white linen of a school day’s playdress,
illuminated by sun from all angles,
still does not resemble lace,
silk, or otherwise.

In this paper light, I imagine myself richly attired,
blanketed, in delicacy. Each imaginary button is
singularly great, a masterwork, art. Stories
or fairly told vignettes painted by thin strands of
lace. The frock is a mild mild coral color, straight
down from below my clavicles to past my knees, it is
sheer.

The ribboned hat pinned to my head with its feather
bobbing up and down as I move, slink, though rooms ,
lit with warm tints. (Phosphenes I made by pressing
pressing on my eyes to block this sharp white on my
wrinkled nose. There are specks in the dark, tiny
pinholes, then colors that dance in and out of sight.)

Two sheer layers are still sheer in their addition,
the final sum does not escape translucence, a hint
of something under. Hip bone against membrane,
fibers so easy divorced by a slight tug. Perhaps he
misses my arm, lover who must be there, completing
the world behind my eyes.

The dress, more frail than I and more lucid,
dissolves, melts into a small stone on the floor.
Wavy haired children play games with it elsewhere,
somewhere far away from me in my fantasy, perhaps near
me in my reality, standing in the rough potato sack
near the slides with silver
too reflective in this
laser light show they call day.

In figures, I am nude now, my dress on the floor
as a marble. Fingers run for my chest, as could be
expected. These longer my fingers arch, my back
bends, my legs go on till tomorrow. But my breasts,
so far from perfect, hide them, I hide. Eyes,
eyes not mine now, eyes I love, eyes I despise
still looking at me, unrobed and cold in this
dream of a room stemmed from my aura
(violet for unrealistic focus).

Afraid, I reach for my hardened sheath slip,
I gently unroll it. Again she is a misty breeze, lace
doily in static wind. I’m off behind a screen.
So many layers of transparency between me
and the world. So many levels of knowing. Am I aware
like I say? Why do I hide?

Damselfly wings, blue veins of the wrist, or more
fabricated lace - what will I Baptize myself in? What
dream? What will I decorate my curves with, if not
paint only?

Violet, violet, where have you gone? Is that a veil
over your eyes, a coffee stain on your thigh? No,
you’re just flashed out by the sun. The glare is too
much, much too much.

. . .

I’m rather ashamed to relate the elation I felt when my mother told me I’d made a five on my AP US History exam.

. . .

She brings her summer lover in here, to my room, where she has not slept for days. Does she ask me if I will mind listening to their whispers, their breathing, the sounds that tongues make as I am trying to sleep? No, she just pretends I am not here, while I imagine what they must be doing over there, while I become more and more lonely. It’s dark. (Are they cowards like I am?) I don’t dare to move and have them think I have not drifted off to sleep hours ago. I hate them for lying so close together in that tiny twin bed. I hate them for everything I miss. In the morning I wake them at 8:30 and that bitch complains it was not early enough.

. . .

A concert, a concert. I’d forgotten how I love live music and seeing them all in their black dresses and tuxes. The arms of the conductor are so like those Indian women I want to mimic some day. I must get Marlon to teach me how to conduct, but he only does march style, and that’s not so great. It was lovely. I went with Melissa and Katherine after hearing our teacher read her story. The story was set in Marietta, where my mother grew up. On the way to Sewanee we stopped there and drove around for an hour or so, she pointing out all the houses she’d lived in and where her friends had lived, and the stable she worked at, and the Big Chicken, which is also the title of Kerry’s story.

The Sewanee Festival Orchestra. Robert Bernhardt, conductor. Lee Luvisi, guest pianist. Elgar’s Variations on an Original Theme (Enigma Variations) and Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat, op. 83. I’m buying the enigma variations as soon as I can. I was quite swept away. I longed for my flute. I fanned myself with the paper fan I was not to remove from the building. I gasped. I closed my eyes. I love the way violinists move.

We wandered around outside All Saints before returning to the dorm. We saw a snake. It was exciting. Then M. and I climbed stairs that went around and around (snake-like!) in a tower where it was rather dark and spooky. Up at the top we pretended to be bowmen guarding a castle, and talked of period frocks we’d like to own. M. is from New York City, and I think she is the best writer in my workshop. She writes of Egypt, though she’s never been.