“A Yellow Dress” is a poem written as an ode to girls and women of color.
– – –
it’s her mother’s old dress — heavy with the scent of lavender and spilled champagne
lace trim eaten away by time and moths
not midnight blue or rich evergreen or flamingo pink
just a mustard yellow and an eyelet skirt skimming over her legs
but painfully so, brighter than kernels of corn basking in the sun, nuggets of gold, strings of saffron
it’s her’s now and
if her mother was coriander and chapati, she’s sunflowers and spice and chili powder spinning in her boudoir as she tugs it over her head and closes the heavy curtains
limbs splayed out on the bed
leftover light collecting in a gleaming halo on the dusty vanity
– – –
later snarled wires dig into her elbows and crimson bleeds onto brilliant yellow
her nails are bitten to gummy crescents and she’s the girl on top of a hill. a heap. a mountain.
fine, spider webbing scratches along her kneecaps and a nasty gash along her thigh that will scab over.
stockings split at the seams and one bright white glove missing.
binoculars draped around her neck, the straps of her dress looping figure-eights casting shadows on the tree behind her.
and she can name all the constellations, prickles of light assembled coldly overhead.
body draped artlessly over tree limbs and tangled wire and foxgloves woven through her thick curls, wild and untamed. and absolutely fearless.
she’s the girl on top of a hill. a heap. a mountain.
– – –
the next day they tell her not to wear yellow.
hand her tubes of turmeric paste and Fair and Lovely that isn’t really fair.
she’s too dark, too bushy, too much.
yellow is feminine refinery and light, pinkish skin kissed by sunshine and sand, they say.
you can’t wear yellow — you’re invisible with the lights off. no, neither can she. yellow girls don’t wear yellow. how about him? no, it’s all wrong.
she’s utterly beyond caring.
– – –
the day after that she’s barefoot in her kitchen, dancing with saltshakers in hand and flakes of paprika in her hair.
sprinkling a shower of warm cinnamon over glazed buns and licking melted icing, a lacquered sugar, from her fingers.
the neighbors are watching… they’re watching her discover herself.
all in that worn yellow dress. but don’t turn it into a declaration it shouldn’t have to be.
she’s just a girl in a yellow dress.
– – –
and if they may
burn crimson in peeling sunburns.
tinge green in nauseam.
flower red across the apples of their cheeks in shame and bursts of mortification.
turn blue in sadness when there’s no color left inside.
bruise deep purple and scab raw pink.
why can’t she wear a yellow dress and
love the one hue she was gifted with?
– – –
stop trying to take away her color. you already have the whole box to yourself.