Poem in which my better self is an eternal debutante

My better self is wearing white again. She is languid,
thinking this is the time; there are pearls at my throat.

My better self is preparing to float downstairs in her white dress.
Her hand rests languidly on the banister;
she is thinking this time I will go further.

My better self is pretending not to be aware of her lunar power,
how her languid right arm is making everyone think of the moon.

My better self is very conscious of the eyes in the room
and the implications of her languid white dress.

My better self is pausing languidly at the first step.
The dancers below her waltz and stare;
shushushush goes the taffeta.

Sometimes my better self has looked better.

My better self has a complex approach towards first impressions.
Other debutantes have sunk languidly into their seasons.

The night is all before my better self.
The night could hold a thousand better steps.
My better self should take the first step down with languidness.

How languidly my better self will float downstairs.
She is just making herself prepared.
She is immaculate up there.

Rachel Piercey

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