“The Pink Chanel Suit” by Amanda Auchter

Amanda Auchter

          Dallas, 1963

                                        She said
        don’t wash it, when asked

                if she wanted to change, to take off

                                        the wool skirt, the blue

                lined jacket. I want them to see,

        she said. Kid gloves, a blood bloom

                                on her wrist,
                                        stockings. Swipe of hair

                                across her mouth.
        In the car, she remembers

                                a scatter of yellow

                        roses, black birds rising
                        from the Live Oak. How the children

                                ran alongside as they drove past, waving.

        The open windows. A man with a camera,

                                                an umbrella
                                that opened. A raincoat. In the car,

                                        her body covered with bone,

                                hair. The bright pink suit against the gray
November. And all that red inside her hands.

from Rattle #35, Summer 2011

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