Poem for Good Friday

Good-Looking Friday

For Victoria

My sister twirls

Into the kitchen, a flurry of pink:

Hair ribbons hanging loose,
Spring blouse, rose skirt billowing.
Her feet slide across the wood floor
In magenta stockings.

One look from my mother
And she’s marching up the stairs,
Head high and skirt held daintily in one hand.
She returns with a black skirt, a frown,
And the magenta stockings
Still hugging her feet. 

One does not wear pink
Upon the death of the King.