The Thrift Shop Dresses by Frannie Lindsay
I suppose I should say, stop crying. Or: He hardly ever mattered, or he wasn’t even your grandfather. But look at his face: the deep lines, the weathered skin. He is, he is, all over again.
The Thrift Shop Dresses
I slid the white louvers shut so I could stand in your closet
a little while among the throng of flowered dresses
you hadn’t worn in years, and touch the creases
on each of their sleeves that smelled of forgiveness
and even though you would still be alive a few more days
I knew they were ready to let themselves be
packed into liquor store boxes simply
because you had asked that of them,
and dropped at the door of the Salvation Army
without having noticed me
wrapping my arms around so many at once
that one slipped a big padded shoulder off of its hanger
as if to return the embrace.