the red slip

IN THE RAGS to Riches thrift store, she scoots hangers across the rod, finds the slip—a secret wedged between dresses and blouses.

In the fitting room, the blood-red rayon burns in her hands. She gathers it into a wreath, drops it over her head. It falls, forms to the curves of her waist and hips. Fire and ice, a shock of satin that stops just above her knees.

She turns, looks into the narrow mirror on the door, lays her hands on her concave belly, feels them rise and fall as she breathes.

She is a lit fuse.