Dressing Down, 1962

“Shalom,” called the pink-shirted man in the Oceanic   

Terminal of Heathrow, and I snapped,   

“I do not want to talk to you.” Manic

with fear, I extended one pointy-tipped shoe, tapped   

the message home. My cases bulged with the wrong   

clothes, every outfit trimmed with clipped

English, fit for telephone jobs on Long   

Island. Rwanda, Algeria, and me   

declaring every kind of independence.

My skirt and I were green, not the pretty   

pistachio that Jacqueline Kennedy wore,   

but the color copper develops in the sea,

cold and unfortunate, the green of storms   

that have never squalled before. My hat,   

gloves, and I were pale, not plush like the warm

blonde women settling in their seats   

and bubbling dipthongs to their husbands;   

not even poignant, like the champagne satin

that Marilyn Monroe was buried in.   

Just neutral, stale as a biscuit, off   

as an old cup of milk. I was stubborn,

I would do what I said and leave   

England. I would ride that El Al jet, mystery   

novel in hand and never grieve.

Johnny Carson, The Jetsons, and me.   

A new wardrobe in cartoon hues. Meanwhile,   

my row-mate slipped off her court shoes, free

toes wiggling in hose. “We all went to Israel,   

almost all of us on the flight, and are returning   

to South Carolina,” she explained in a drawl

that frightened me more that the turbofan   

wailing beneath us. In her sundress, her stomach   

looked soft. Ungirdled? Does everyone chat with a twang,

even the Jews? I do not want to talk,   

but here I am, midair. “Coffee,” I replied   

to the hostess, slowly. I will never wear slacks,   

but I can unfasten each word, open it wide.