When Dante first saw Beatrice, she wore
a red dress – probably not much like mine.
Allowing, though, for accident (design,
and taste, and length, and Lycra), what he saw
was more or less what you saw on the night
when I decided you were mine. My dress
was red in its intent and – more or less –
red in its consequence. And I was right
to wear it, and play ‘queen’ with those poor boys
who didn’t know quite what was going on,
and deferentially provided noise
of admiration and desire. These gone,
certain of these, and certain of your bed,
we left; and the rest is taken as read.
– Eleanor Brown