Wearing Black
My mother always wore all black.
That is, after she got fat,
and after she heard on her favorite
New York radio talk show that black
was “slimming.” And so
within her ample dresser were
geologic layers of black cotton
scoop neck tee shirts and matching
black cotton button down cardigans—
all Bloomingdale’s best, on sale—
always one or two complete outfits
with the tags still on, saved
for Special Occasions.
How she longed to be invisible,
like Winnie-the-Pooh dangling
mud-covered
beneath a blue balloon
pretending to be a black rain cloud
so the honey bees would not be
Suspicious.
If only I— her thin and unforgiving daughter—
had been more like Christopher Robin
poised beneath the tree, exuding patience and
fondness, laughing to himself, “Silly old Bear!”