The USPS boxes arrived, of course
in torrential rain. My mother’s prom
and wedding dresses, miraculously
dry when I pried open the taped lids.
The gowns yawned out to full length,
like three ghosts waiting for their
heads. These dresses more whole
than my mother would ever be again.
Her stitching ripped out, plastic
buttons melted, lace singed. Only
the metal zipper left, a spine-bone
resemblance, churned in the cremulator
down to ash. She lied to me when
I was five, told me she’d refitted her
wedding dress so that I could be
a Halloween bride. Spooky, the manilla
Victorian collar, a chokehold around
the neck. October chilling us kids
down, morgue-like. My veil made
a diaphanous ghost that dragged
and lifted off the trail of sidewalk-
headstones where we’d chalked our
names, practicing cryptic letters
with stone cold dedication. It would
all wash away in November’s rain.
–
Katie Kemple’s life is not all that interesting. She lives in California with her family and writes poems whenever she has time. Previous poems of hers have appeared in Chestnut Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Whale Road Review.
© 2023, Katie Kemple
Halfway Down the Stairs 