Kaitlin Tremblay

Yellow Dress

Sometimes when I wear that dress,
the yellow one, with the lapels and
uneven hem, I think of
the way that man told you
(not me, of course), “Hey,
I can see up your lady’s dress.”
We were laying in the park.
You were angry for me – your anger
filled the vacuum left by my
complacency. How spared you were,
I think, to those kinds of comments.
There’s still a bit of a grass stain
on the bottom of that dress. A scratch
of green, cross-hatched, like a scrape.