She struts ahead of me,
the hem of her black dress
with bunches of pink flowers
swings at mid-thigh,

reminding me of that longer dress,
black with turquoise flowers,
new buttons (one a cameo) and reset seams
I so loved to wear with black tights,

which does not fit anymore
though it remains in the basement
to be pulled out and
questioned each fall,

my hips and middle having
’expanded from child birth,’
as my mother used to say
when she twitched in her skirts —

I never believed her
so do not deserve to believe me.