Mark Gregory Lopez
a dress
A bed of lies beneath the moon
I make from scratch,
I wear it well.
The way the sharp eye
keeps the clock on washboard time,
I wear it well.
They buried my grandpa
before I was born, and I swallowed
a piece of his cancer
when I was old enough to don sickness like a sweater.
I think I wear it well.
I scraped the sky to see the world in slow reprieve,
taking clouds to puff my hair into an ark.
I wear it well.
I let him turn my body
to a keen shred of metal,
scraps left over from torn-down streetlamps,
I think I wear them well.
The skin of the river
like a shroud that tells me the currents
were never mine, still,
I think they wear me well.