Wardrobe Mistress

I stood in front of the wardrobe

we shared and stared and stared.

I had just seen her with overalls down

below her knees, your familiar bare bum

tensed. It’s thrusting only previously

seen in awkward twisting mirror-glimpses.

Your shirts and tees hang between pink

bright lime, purple, olives, shady greens

of twirling gypsy skirts. My bohemian

scarves draped over one of your two suits;

70’s-wedding brown and grey work-familiar.

There’s nothing I recognise now. No, no

clothing will suit or fit my new body - the

slimmed down me. So I’ll close the large

wardrobe jammed with memories of lilac picnics,

winter barbecues, summer crocheted maternity

smock. The shirt I hand-made for our first

anniversary... and leave the idea of kisses.

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2014