I pulled it out of your closet.
Too big, you wore it on the playground
that first week in Nebraska
and the time your breasts brimmed
softwhite and spilling
you had to drink it, too.
You drank even when you didn’t want to–
Did you feel it inside you?
Swish of beer bitter in your uterus.
He brought home würst each morning,
the glass-roof dining room almost enough
to pretend you were with the hazel hens outside.
What does the dress make you–
a Nazi, a slut?
What about me?–surely
you wish I could be so easily hung
on a hanger in your closet.
Emma Fuhs spent her childhood on the central coast of California and is now an undergraduate at the University of California, Davis, where she is majoring in English. She will have a short story published in the forthcoming issue of The Writing Disorder and aspires to be a novelist. She is probably eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch right now.