The Red or Black Dress 
angela giroux

there were times when, high above the earth in your
arms, i'd believe i was flying.
but last night, when you once again took my feet
from the asphalt, i felt something
i'd never associated with you: fear.
suddenly, instead of flying, i was falling, farther
and farther, through the safety you
once promised, down to the still river below,
screaming and flailing the entire way until at
last i awoke, remembering only the part of my dream
where i couldn't choose between the
red dress and the black.
so i sat straight up, like i'd been ejected from my
subconscious, not awaken;
it is obvious to me now, as my shoulder brutally
adjusts itself annually for some
mysterious purpose, that i am going to pieces from
the outside in.
when i was stumbling from bed to cold tile floor,
the little demon resting in my
abdomen shuddered to life, promptly kicking me...i
felt almost as if i should be giving birth
to the little monster, if only to prove the ache
there existed.
nonetheless, i am going to pieces from flesh and
bone to thoughts, and dreams
where i can't choose what color to wear.
in the end, i wear red. i am weary of black and
mourning, of being worshipped like
a goddess when i doubt my own realism.
red suits me fine...and somehow, it stops that
little demon from his kick.