You can see through my dress. It clings to me in pieces and reveals just enough. I can move in this dress, walk down streets, perch on subway benches, sit cross-legged in sand. Because of this dress a Coney Island man plowed into a street sign, a truck driver howled from the other side of the Henry Hudson Parkway, prick in hand, and someone tossed a bucket of water on me from a second story window to see my underthings.

Read More