The Writers Gathering in a Dream

is where I arrive in my tight velvet dress

and glistening jewels

in celebration of surviving cancer.

I want to saturate myself

with wise writers’ words.

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

the love of his life in a bar.

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 to The Irishman

and say thank you for simply allowing me.

Diana Raab