I feel
in her pockets; she wore nice cotton gloves,
kept a handkerchief box, washed her undies,
ate at the Holiday Inn, had a basement freezer,
belonged to a bridge club.
I think when I wake in the morning
that I have turned into her.
She hangs in the hall downstairs,
a shadow with pulled threads.
I slip her over my arms, skin of a matron.
Where are you? I say to myself, to the orphaned body,
and her coat says,
Get your purse, have you got your keys?
Was reading
Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, And Drama, 6th Edition
I came upon the poem above and it inspired this:
I'd gone up to the attic in order
to fetch a string of Christmas lights.
Nearing dusk, the slanted shadows
barred the glare of December sun.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
my first wedding gown.
Summer white, Laura Ashley long, it hung
over the mannequin an exhausted tulip,
so unlike the crisp oxford that was
my uniform, post-divorce: boxy, untucked
over men's tan chinos - very wisened, I'm afraid.
I found the box of white lights at the foot of a stuffed tyger.
We weaved them into the garland on the mantel over the fire.
I didn't mention the dress to Mother; her heart had broken harder
when he left me than my own - strange to find such sober figures
while looking for holiday cheer.
