
In the Red Dress I Wear to Your Funeral is a poem written by Erin Belieu which appears in her latest book Black Box. The textiles based machine embroidery was created by Alison Little as a response to the poem. Erin has kindly given her permission to use the poem as the subject matter for the artwork and for the poem to be reproduced for this article.
In the Red Dress I Wear to Your Funeral
—ERIN BELIEU
1.
I root through your remains,
looking for the black box. Nothing left
but glossy chunks, a pimp’s platinum
tooth clanking inside the urn. I play you
over and over, my beloved conspiracy,
my personal Zapruder film—look,
here’s us rounding the corner, here’s me
waving at the crowd. God, you were lovely
in your seersucker suit. And weren’t we happy
then, before the cross-fire triangulation?
Answer me, dead man.
Wait. Here comes the best part,
where my head snaps back and you crawl
blood-addled and ferocious
from the moving vehicle….
2.
I am undead and sulfurous. I stink like a tornado.
I lift my scarlet tail above your grave
and let the idiot villagers take me
in torchlight
one by one by one by one….
Your widowed Messalina, my soprano
cracks the glasses on the buffet at the after party.
I know you can hear me.
Is my hair not coiffed like the monster’s bride,
lightning bolts screeching at my temples?
What electrified me
but your good doctor’s hand alone?
3.
I’m a borscht-belt comedienne
working the audience from behind
your headstone.
I shimmy onstage between Pam
And Her Magic Organ and
the gigantic poodle act.
Your coffin is a tough room.
Mourners talk through my set,
down schmutz-colored highballs, wait
for the fan dancer to pluck
her scuzzy feathers. But you
always loved
the livestock, didn’t you?
I say how many of you folks are in
from Jersey?
The microphone sweats
like your cock did in my hands.
4.
I help the Jews drape the mirrors. I peel the foil from
the Protestant’s bleak casseroles. The Catholics and Agnostics
huddle in the parking lot, smoking a memorial bowl.
My dear, even the worst despot in his leopard skin fez
will tell you: the truth doesn’t win, but it makes an appearance,
though it’s a foreign cavalry famous for bad timing and
half-assed horsemanship. History will barely remember that you
were yellow and a cheat, a pixilated bi-valve who consumed
as randomly as the thunderheads pass, and yet, how strange,
how many of us loved you well. So tenderly, I’ll return
what you gave me—a bleached handkerchief, a Swiss army knife
bristling with pointless blades. Tenderly, I return everything,
leaving my best evidence in your bloodless lap
5.
I go to our Chinese take away,
where the placemats say I’m a snake
and you were my favorite pig, though
astrologically you were a wasting
disease and I’m the scales of justice.
Coincidence?
Get down on your knees
and cross yourself all you want:
all systems are closed systems, dead man.
I keep my saltshaker holstered in my garter belt,
ready to spill.
6.
I recite the fairy tale
in which only I can save you: it’s our story,
so there’s a swamp instead of a forest,
and no trail but a river agog with water moccasins
winding through the cypress knees.
Your faithful Gerta, true sister
in my red pinafore,
I’ve tracked you doggedly for miles,
appearing at the critical moment,
when you take the Turkish Delight into your mouth.
I’ve arrived just in time!
It’s impossible to miss me, eager as a stain
behind the Swamp Queen’s white shoulder,
your tattered avenger, your loyal roach, who’s wanted only
you in every suppurating hut, who’s belly-crawled
through the shit-filled bogs to find you,
to whom you gave your vow, my will undone, family
asunder, my home disappeared by the charm of
your girlish tears…
and that’s it. Nothing comes next.
That’s the moment you decide, dead man.
You look into my face and gulp her
candy down. You shoot it like a bad oyster.
No matter
how I tell it, this world ends when
you swallow.
7.
I was never your Intended,
never meant to be the official widow
like that plain, chinless girl I refused to recognize
or comprehend.
But the plain ones are patient, aren’t they?
I’ll admit, she’s earned her orchestra seats
at this burial the old-fashioned way.
She’s up front, next to your mama,
that Chanel commando baked medium-well
in her spray-on tan. A rare example
of the real Southern lady, how many nights
did it cost her, patrolling
the family compound for Jezebels like me?
Your women, dead man. From here
they look like two snap peas squatting
in the same pod.
And they did their job, didn’t they?
They made it easy for you?
But later, once the ladies go,
I’ll climb down to you again.
I’ll come to you in that dirty box
where we’ve already slept for years,
keeping our silent house
under their avalanche of flowers.
8.
EYE AM THE PROMISED VISITATION
PRIESTESS OF BLACK POPLARS
MY TREES R HUNG W/ BRAZEN BELLS
EYE HAVE AUGURED THE PREGNANT SOW’S INTESTINES
RORSCHACHEDÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â THE PICKLED WORM
GLUED TO THE BOTTOM OF YR SHOT GLASS
EYE BRING U NEWS OFÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â THE UNIVERSE
AND THE NEWSÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â AINT GOODÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â DEAD MAN
B-HOLD!
THE ZOMBIE COCKTAIL HOURÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â OF THE YEARS TO CUM
A PURGATORYÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â UNBENDING AS
A BADLANDS
HI-WAY
IN THE T-LEAVESÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â EYE SPY YR OUTLINE
YR CORPSEÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â SNORING IN A VINE-
STRANGLED HOUSE
REBEL DRAG MOUNTS THE WALLSÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â LIKE A CONFEDERATE
HARD ROCK CAFÉ                O! THE BLURRED DAYZ
COLLAPSING INTO DINNERSÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â WHILE THE MAID BURNS
THE FAMILY BISCUITSÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â & YR WOMAN BEATS
THE GRAVY STIFFÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â U ARE LOST
GANYMEDEÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â GONE THAT BOY
WHO POURED HIMSELF                  WHOLE INTO THE SIBYL’S
LOVING CUPÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â NOW EYE CUM
TO BURY U
4 EYE AM
THE GHOST OF X-MAS PASTÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â AND YR FUTURE
BEGINSÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â NOWÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â DEAD MAN
9.
I do not desist in my delusion    do not permit the victor’s history
will not admit your fake religion    what jams your fingers
in the dry vagina of tin idylls    will not    will not    go quietly
your evil goody    who cries me in the marketplace    who knocks
my ear to the pillory with false instruments    my crimes never
crimes    for firstly    I be the pretty pony of all plague    slant-gashed
a coil beneath my scum of loveliness    No!    I was    I always am
your yellow roses in a beer bottle    your weakness and reward
one organ    conjoined in the blue tipi    of floating whistles
doubled thunder coming    in my wicked mouth    to eat you and your
grandma    too    Name her! Name her    who bites you harder    little girl!
Will not say    for seconds I am filth    dirty as the damaged apple    I bore
not yours    never yours    that unspeakable sunshine    Turn your head!
Turn your head    and I’ll kindly cut it off    Yes Yes    the best reason    I am
left only    the mother of a great sun    you would go blind and    blinder to look
upon its number and    for finally I am not    of your being    being Queen
of the flat kingdoms what crop your emptiness    I do not admit these    nor
I lied    nor I betrayed    nor I am starving    for you    nor can you make me
never    Will    I disappear
10.
I peel myself
and wherever these rubied
feathers drop, a poppy unfurls
in the graveyard, each head plush
as a stitched lip.
You’re right,
it gets me high, how thin I am, my
love, the substance uncontrolled.
But this molting becomes me,
your naturally-occurring razor,
your baby I.V. Now I am fashioned
the gun so truly fired
I blast like a magic cap through
my own skin. So go on,
throw the bones
to your hairy pack and let them gnaw.
I’m done with the meat. Soon, I’ll be
demolished. I’ll step away free.
at Length