Wedding Dress (A Conversation Consisting Solely Of The Word "Strippers")

These never come out quite how I intend them. Anyhow. An old recollection.

Strippers.

She has heard the complaints from her roommate

Delivered very seriously to her right ear and clear through to the left and

Deadset she remains 

On strippers at her roommate’s bachelorette party.

The sweetness of a taste well-known enough to switch

Settles from the lofty proclamations down to the swivel chair, 

Turning wheels caught in the pastel rug tassels.

That’s nice.

Her roommate turns back to her drawing pad,

Filled with penciled curves and enough words for comfort,

Trying to design from future memory her roommate’s wedding dress.

It should flow, she knows this, lace and tulle and shimmer,

And shudders at the crisp white fate awaiting her,

Yet unromantic motifs such as wood and copper plague the page

Sour the affection that’s scattered over the carpet.

Tasked with a gown, she is designing a fortress,

Which is worry, which is the worst kind of love,

The kind that sees an exponential decrease in holiday visits

And an exponential increase in holiday cards in their place.

She is worried because this dorm room doesn’t care who’s living in it,

With its enduring high grey ceilings and natural light, 

But everywhere else does, and takes it quite personally.

So maybe her roommate will shine best in unforgettably soft cream satin,

Then she silently scoffs at the insistence of jamming Nat King Cole into her fantasy.

Expensive, yes; draped, no,

So maybe she’ll opt for a corset bodice, boned in wire

And pray that it comes barbed.

But her roommate is supposed to be in love, not in peril of puncture wounds, so,

Armed with a question and an alibi,

She spins around to look at her roommate.

Cozy in fleece, lost in an episode of Demon Slayer.

No threat. None whatsoever.

She makes a mental note- brown chiffon. 

Absorbs and reflects light just like the skin.

Unconventional. Regal. Warm.

The remnants of old conversation pop up from the floor like oil in a pan,

Splashing and sizzling up to the ceiling, burning stars,

Catching attention, turning heads,

Turning for a moment in the imagination across a mirrored floor,

Where intrinsic light diffuses and invites, and draws

Eyes to the guest of honor, whose revolution is complete,

Skirt swirling to a stop over feet that ache with dance.

Right, the question.

Strippers?

As if in sustained disbelief of her and not her critics.

And as if certain of tomorrow, and every upcoming when and where and how,

Strippers.