Her summer dress was a hillside in bloom.
Pastel print of gladiolas and allium bathed
in a ginkgo leaf’s green, ruffled around
the bodice, an afternoon held by its white seams
that I would try on, feet first through the sheath,
to know what it was like, a season on your body.
My mother, in her summer dress, after the dishes
were in their cupboards, after her sons had been put
to sleep, where they tussled and snagged the sheets
with their feet, she was kind. She’d let me flit
in the night, on her cobblestone girlhood streets,
through the meadow in our hem-held loitering.
The cowslips shameless across our knees.