Renee M. Weissenburger

with imaginary sickness
          perverse and necessary
i slide on the
pale yellow dress,
          empire cut,
worn by a bridesmaid, my mother,
in the late sixties.
my hair is tangled and
          the circles under my eyes have become
darker with the help of a little gray eye-shadow.

lifting the dress over scabbed, ugly knees,
i wade into the fishpond
           that lies in my back yard.
(there are no orange fish today.
they have been gone a long time).
           easing this body into the water, my hands crush
the dehydrated wrist corsage my sister
wore to the dance that stormy night
when luke mcculla arrived at the door
          an hour early, in unzipped trousers and
                    a crooked smile.

i loosen my grip and the disintegrated
petals drip off my fingertips
the scattered purple skeletons grow
into "rosemary for remembrance
           and pansies for thought, rue and fennel,
                    columbines and grace o'sundays. . .
                    and a daisy.”
out-loud, i whisper, to no one in particular,
          “i would give you some violets but they all withered......."
the murky water seeps into my hair weighing me down.
eyes glazed and mouth partly open,
          i begin to believe that i really am her
and for a moment i want to be where she is.
i hear the back door open and frantic footsteps
my mother, in a blue paisley dress, rushes to the pond.
          "no! not again! you're not her!" she shouts at me.
"why do you want to be her?"
i don't answer and after a few minutes she goes inside.

i fix my eyes upon a Caterpillar clinging
                                                  to a moss-ridden rock.
he twists and arches his soft form becoming
                    as coarse as the stone itself.
i lay there for a while, watching
                    him till my legs are cramped
and my ears are waterlogged.
and then, all at once, it strikes me.
my mother is right. i am not her.
i do not want to be her.