She prepares herself for wedding night,
first sleep—and now, all there is to remove
is white silk, corpuscle hairs extending
from the small of her legs,
crossing her ankles. She is not ready for this.
She knew she could not wear
the small white dress meant for one day
and one day only. White linen and hem,
pink blush: she takes her time to remove
these things, exposing her breasts, pressed together,
two half-moons, the pink centers.
She shivers as the dress takes its time, drops.
It is in this moment that she wants to become something
else, as if all the white cluttered on the floor
were wings she could pick up and put back on,
get dressed, and open a window somewhere
at the back of the house, let him sleep, and jump.
McKenzie Lynn Tozan lives and writes in South Bend, Indiana, where she teaches composition at Indiana University South Bend. She received her MFA in Poetry from Western Michigan University, where she worked as the Layout and Design Editor at New Issues Poetry and Prose. She specializes in poetry, stories, and book reviews. Her poems have appeared in Encore Magazine, Sleet Magazine, Rogue Agent and Analecta, and her book reviews have appeared on The Rumpus. For more, visit her at www.mckenzielynntozan.com.