The Night I Wore the Purple Dress

I was Chambord floating
in bubbles of Prosecco. I was
a scallop wrapped in bacon.
Sleeveless, with seams that contoured
and material that breathed,
I liked when men placed
the flat of their hands
against my back
against the gold zipper running
down the length of my dress.
Easy access, I teased.
This dress with the zipper
like the Mississippi flowing
the entire length of the United States
meandering toward the Gulf of Mexico
down in the Delta.
It owned me, that dress,
dark as night but not night
dark as closed eyelids
the wispy, veiny, purplish light
that seeps through when making a wish—
a condition of longing
that creates more longing.
Was I indigo?
Was I amethyst or cobalt?
That night I was the life
of the party, in a dress
the color I could not name.