SmokeLong Quarterly

1. Take pictures (irreverent is best.) Free it to be a bath towel, scratch the odd ball. Drop it on a wet floor. You will bring this dress to its knees.

2. White’s a problem, makes you blind. Think kitchens: duster, tablecloth, the lace cuff is a doily under your can. Watch the dog circle and lie. Open another beer. Sit by the dog.

3. Take it out. Now. Feel the weight of white in your arms. It’s windy, carry the dress to the garage like bearing the burden of a woman too drunk to dance. Toss it on the Harley, rub the leather seat till it shines. Remember no woman’s behind.

4. Did you take it far enough? Tonight its back. Kick it. Don’t apologise.

5. The skirt fits the birdcage. Everyday you expect dead pets, morning trills when you lift the net.

6. Use it. Tie up the ends, string it between trees. The dress is a hammock. You think you’re too heavy, imagine getting cozy then hearing silk split, push you out to the floor like a still born.

7. Make a scarecrow. Try different Halloween masks. Darth Vader. Yoda. Cher. Notice the dress suits all and none. Look out the window, see its face lift in the wind.

8. Bring it in. Don’t know why. The fabric’s grey, brocaded with piss, beaded by rain. Pigeons have pinned broaches to its breast. Give the dress room to dry out on its back. Starch it. Firm. Leave your beer and crawl under the skirt. It’s an igloo, a man could live here.

9. It tells many jokes. Laugh.

10. Tell your friends what you did, but not how long you stayed in the igloo. Everything pales from the inside. You close your eyes, sleep under snow deeper than it’s been for a while.