frockshock

Nothing fits my fretting state, so I trip
into a chintzy charity shop and quickly strip
off my own tear-stained stock, only to slip
my fingers into silk rosed topshop frock and quip
to myself that it’s far too baggy for my newfound
state,that even if I bought it I would hate
the bump of fabric at the front,
the little rosy tucks,
the cotton crib at the pit
of the stomach, a reminder of the blip
that forces me to peel the dress from skin and slip
it on the hanger, return it to the plummy woman
at the till, lower my pregnant glance and quickstep out of
the shop of hand-me-downs, eyes bursting at the seams:
from this gold-daisied dress I glimpsed or guessed
the shape of things that might have been.