The Dress

(in response to the world as it is)

A night on the town,

Me wearing a dress.

You in a suit.

Both of us looking beautiful.

Revelling in the safe and joyful harbour

Of friendship.

Or so I thought.

Later (much) I found out 

That dress,

Or my body thus covered

In it's black sleekness,

Was equated to torture.

Me, depicted as the
Manipulator.

Abusing some power
I did not wield.
Instigating some imagined
Game of chase.
Power thrust upon me,
In order to claim
A kind of victimhood.

How is it that I felt
Responsible?

My being-ness,
Playfulness,

Beauty
Mistaken for an unkindness.

How is it that a woman

Worries about such things?

Somehow culpable for the

Projections of those

Who do not know how to appreciate

Beauty

Without seeing
Sex
And power-over.

Who see an
Object;
The beautiful
As the enemy.

The tormentor,
Or quarry
To be brought down.
A light to be extinguished.

I rarely wear a dress.

Because I feel responsible.
Protecting a man
From the pain of
Desire.
As if it was my duty.


This will stop now.

Because I know there were
Two of us.
Both equally beautiful.
I would never
Look at you
And think you unkind
For wearing a suit.

May I never apologize
Quietly again;
For being beautiful,
For feeling free
To wear what I want
Without fear of reprise.
For having my own
Wellspring
Of power
Wrapped lovingly in a black dress.