Poetry at Sangam



DRESSED TO DREAM by Beth Copeland

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.