My Communion dress.
An elegance of draped
white crepe
and velvet ribbons.
Mother of pearl trimmings
clasped my
throat and wrists
like decorative
restraints.
 
My mother
spent months stitching
her hopes for me
to every bead
and sequin.
It was perfection.
Hands clasped in prayer
in yellowing photographs
I look the part.
 
I fell three times
beside the
Stations of the Cross
on the way
to receiving Jesus.
Pioty betrayed
by new shoes
and slippery
souls.
 
My mother
had the dress cleaned
while adjusting
her hopes.
For years it hung
in my wardrobe.
An elegance of draped
white crepe
and irremovable
stains.