An Ode to Juanita’s Dress

Photo by Carrie Borden on Unsplash

A poem by Alexis Ragan

There
in the center
of the wall danced
a sepia saturated frame of a woman

wrapped in the fabric of fairies.

She wore a tree
the hue of dust
kissed by mauve
crests of desert cliffs
and tangy sandstorms,
tan tulle trailing the trunk
of her beige ribboned bodice with woven teardrops,

or upside-down leaves, which hung off her hips harmoniously.

Cream tights climb
the lengths of her limbs stretching far beyond
the acres of her orchard, brown lace trickling down her folded hands.
A sultry saunter seeps behind soft spirals of
coiled cinnamon for hair, cheeks like putty,

proud as pears or the roundest pearls,

the color of the papercuts

she used to get from using the ladder

behind the shed to reach the ripe ones.

She is aching
for the music
behind the circus,
a sulky symphony to
dine with her dress.
Surely, she’s seen
the frothy chasm of counsel or even held
the tender bulb of folly
as a ballerina in the back
of Sonoma apple country.

But I wondered
if during Harvest, her dress
had pockets to carry the crumbs
of her dried fruit crisps?
If during Harvest, the excess fabric

became a blanket for picnic platters?

If during Harvest, the train of her skirt shifted into one

brilliant copper kite, floundering over the fields?
Only Juanita’s dress does this.
Only her dress rouses
the hibernation of fall.

For now
this ode joins the wind.
For now
the hum runs clear:
Wit is a sappy yolk,
need is one hollow deer,
the tree she wears is a dress docile,

until you unravel its tiers.