In dreams I wear dresses that don’t belong to me,
peeling them off like the purple husk of an onion.
Each frame of the dream is another layer of breath
exhaled. Each dress is another reason to leave
myself, each shimmering yoke seamed
to transparent sleeves
of morning, to light seen through silk
skirts and scarves
against my skin like Draupadi’s sari
unwraps without baring her breast
as I take off dress after dress after dress
trying to find myself
beneath the endless layers of a dream
forgotten in the flesh.
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