When I went to college,
she would loot my closet for
the dresses deserving of more
than half a dorm room recess,
than new necklines of beer and stain.
I warned her not to touch them;
she wore them anyway,
my Phi Beta Kappa betrayer,
NSF-fellow nihilist, only unsuccessful
at playing the fool.
When she went to college,
no one was left to tell our mother
the whose and the whys. My closest
became a haven for the raiment
with which we could not part.
And that is how I came to possess
the black pineapple dress, the dark whimsy
for which she was never well-suited:
fit and flare and black as sin
but only in the proper light.