We Dress for Armageddon

for Shelley Turley

When trouble—an earthquake, a heart— 
Comes to town, breaking dams, 
Leveling shops, clubs 
Restaurants, ringing out alarms 
Like bells at Christmas, my 
Best friend and I put on silk, 
Georgette, wear hose with seams 
Up the back. If the ground is still 
And planes drift over us, the sweaters 
Thin from wear and broken trousers 
Of the transient suit us. We stay inside. 
But when the earth and sky 
Lap at our ankles, when the street 
Cracks like a wound, we walk out 
With the maturity of satin, the 
Poise of slick shoes and pearls. 
Stones of all colors blink 
From our ears and fingers, from 
Our hair in smooth piles. Scarves 
Rest in soft folds at the neck. 
It is how we encounter death.

The morning I took my best friend 
To be changed with a knife and tough thread,
I wore grey wool, blue cashmere with
Rhinestone buttons. Stockings and 
Dark lipstick. I waited with magazines
Glossy as life eternal, figures 
Immortalized in haute couture. 
I sat with my back straight, 
Legs crossed at the ankle until a woman
Dressed like the blue angel 
I saw over a motel in Vegas 
Led me to Recovery. My friend 
Did not want her jacket. 
She was too much a vision: blood 
Collecting like the rarest jewels 
In clear bulbs at her sides, her face 
Wet and radiant with confusion. A sight
To weep for, the very Age of Glamour.
When the end, a jealous adversary,
Strips us at last, we will appear 
Naked on the streets, hair of grace,
Skin of mercy, bodies perfect 
As the lives of the saints. We will 
Glow with Armageddon, the sun 
Fading behind us, the great nations
Struck blind, outdone.