with bodice and gathered sleeves
kicks up a gust of colors.
Here I come, a freshly ironed wave
that scrubs the morning clean,
skirt swinging beneath a parasol,
waistline the fulcrum cotton rustles
around on a tropical day stitched
with yellow piping and white petals,
washed in turquoise seawater,
dabbed with terra cotta, edged in pink,
drenched in lavender—I stroll
the market like a paint-splashed
palette, not a woman but women,
plural, a flock, each of me
so dazzling all you see is sunshine.