The Red Dress

I did not want this red dress I had
that I left on top of the dryer
for somebody to take

I didn't want it the way
I didn't want cilantro in my soup
despite my father's urging

I must have not wanted it
the way the moon tires
of its platinum wardrobe
the same curves
waxing and waning

Maybe it reminded me
too much of my mother
who would have forced
all its ruffles and fringes on me