The remade dress crackled,
As the sound of crumpled paper
Springing back in disapproval
To my mother’s disregard.
Always save – reuse, nothing new
To reproach us for our wastefulness.
A torn taffeta underskirt went in
Mother’s magician’s hat – tap tap –
Birthday party wrappings for her little rabbit.
The party aunts arrive.
They drool, their words dripping
Over murderous red lips,
Murky coffee and tobacco stained drivel,
Cooing lies over the dress
Like deceitful, fat pigeons.
“It is pretty,” mother said smiling, deflecting
Sisterly double-bladed assaults while smoothing
The taffeta skirt, retying the shoulder bows.
“I hate it!”stamped the birthday Brutus.
To Caesar, unarmored against surprise betrayal,
It was the unkindest cut of all.
