by Diana Raab
The lead poet is an Irishman
who reads enticing poems in brogue
to an audience of poets and their friends.
He looks right at me when he reads
the poem about when he first met
his love at a bar.
I arrive in my tight purple velvet dress
and glistening jewels
in celebration of surviving cancer.
I want to saturate myself
with wise writers’ words.
I take notes and by the end
I’ve already created my first poem.
When I get up to leave
I discover I’m almost naked,
my clothes are torn to shreds,
strewn about my body.
What’s left dangles above the industrial blue carpet:
sleeves of my dress barely suspended
from my shoulders, the V-neck
torn down to my navel and my nylons
with runs from crotch to toes.
I look up at the Irishman and
he smiles at me, knowing
that he undressed me,
and with his eyes made me naked
in front of everyone.
I want to become invisible—
but everyone will notice my bare ass,
unshaven legs and lopsided breasts,
as he looked twice
at the large scar removing my right breast.
Perhaps the attendees will ask
how dare I leave such an event completely nude.
But I don’t care, as my surgeon told
me to flaunt it whenever I could.
I point my crooked finger at The Irishman
and told him it was all his fault
and to leave me alone now.
© 2025 Diana Raab All rights reserved.
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