The Lost Dress

There it hangs like it forgot something,
like maybe it left its body behind—
too clean, too soft, too damn dreamy
for this busted room and crooked light.

Bella wore it drunk, barefoot, laughing
through the wreckage of her last good thought.
Said she’d marry a trumpet player.
She didn’t. She left it on a fire escape.

Luna danced in it once—
no shoes, no god, just rain.
She drowned in her bathtub,
water humming hymns, dress breathing.

And Zoe? Zoe wore it to the trial,
eyes full of dust from forgotten dreams.
She left it spinning on a motel fan,
a slow ghost orbiting her exit wound.

The cleaning lady touches it with gloves,
crosses herself, whispers to the floor.
She’s seen blood come out of tile grout—
but never anything that shrieks like this.

No one claims it now, while
it drapes over air like it’s trying to disappear.
Some say it hums when no one’s near,
a lullaby with teeth behind the silk.

Gardiner, Maine