the improbable lady

I'm slightly more organized this year than I have been for the last few years of National Poetry Month, which means I have some real bangers coming up in the last week of the month. But I'm starting this week here, with Saeed Jones; I saw someone describe this poem as "heartbreakingly lovely," and it really is—I've had it on my list since I first read it at poetryisnotaluxury in 2023.

In this field of thistle, I am the improbable
lady. How I wear the word: sequined weight
snagging my saunter into overgrown grass, blonde
split-end blades. I waltz in an acre of bad wigs.

Sir who is no one, sir who is yet to come, I need you
to undo this zipped back, trace the chiffon
body I've borrowed. See how I switch my hips

for you, dry grass cracking under my pretend
high heels? Call me and I'm at your side,
one wildflower behind my ear. Ask me
and I'll slip out of this softness, the dress

a black cloud at my feet. I could be the boy
wearing nothing, a negligee of gnats.

—Saeed Jones, "Boy in a Stolen Evening Gown," from Prelude to Bruise (Coffee House Press, 2014).