This is the dress,
the shining, shimmering
pale lime, prom dress
Dawn gave to her
junior-high student.
This is the dress,
the strapless dress,
the soft plunge of a neckline
that kissed the lace-up bust,
the grass-green ribbon
tied in a bow that fell
like a pirouette to the waist,
the gossamer chiffon
that floated over
the satin sea skirt of mint.
This is the dress that flowed
and glowed and swayed
and swished as Larry
strutted down
an imaginary catwalk.
This is the dress he loved
that loved him back,
the dress that made him into who
he was supposed to be,
the dress he was not permitted
to wear at school,
permission granted
to accessories only—
high heels, earrings,
lipstick, blue eye shadow,
mascara, rouge, foundation.
This is the dress Larry
did not wear when he asked
Brandon during recess
if he would be his valentine.
This is the dress Larry left at home
when Brandon pulled a gun and shot him
twice in the back of the head.
This is the dress.
Larry “Latisha” King, 1993–2008