By James C. Brenthal
Published: October 16, 2007

Under a granite slab
(There is still holy space),
Is a rotting dress,
That once emitted grace.
I long to reach that dress.

Not one very like it
(They settle well on land);
Not another dress.
Beneath the slab, my hand
Is reaching for that dress.

A Lady grieves as well
(Her grief theatrical).
She cries for her dress
And holy space is full.
So she forgets that dress.

I picture her no more
(For she is fading, too),
Nor the banished dress.
Its spirit rises, blue.
We will forget that dress

(If we want to or not).
She's just a girl - she stares.
"What was a white dress?"
Nothing. Gone. Perished soul.
I still want to grab it.