A little different that the version published in UWG’s Eclectic.

she bends easy,
yellow dress clenched
in her hands like
a pew on easter sunday.

trying her luck with god,
she wears it like glass,
afraid she might break its thread
and it, in turn, 
break her heart.

laced with dreams of suburbs 
and purple flowers,
stitched with tears she cries 
for her 
welfare checks;

and for her children, 
who know she’s dying,
clinging to her breasts 
like the sweat on her brow.
she will die cleaning second
rate rooms for drunk boys
who will be more successful 
than hers.

the dress wraps around her,
and for the moment, 
she feels almost indebted,
but she won't know why.

far from spring,
the sun feels almost 
redemptive.