Tuesday, October 03, 2006

white shirt poem

Originally published in Swink, Issue 2, Early 2005.

It is almost a collection,
he said of the closet,
like records or coins.

But it was not like that.

The velvet skirt sparks
when worn, still green,
smooth as a pond.

Can also be looked at,

held to the light till it
speaks, till the shirt
becomes memory,

becomes that evening.

No. Clothes
are useful, are meant
to be moved in, taken off,

worn, the seams splitting,

soft as foam. It is true
we buy the same colors
again and again, seeking

to replace what we already

have. It is true there are
pieces balled at the back
of drawers, some of them

spotted with history,

still in their spills.
What is the first thing
you are told after rape?

Don’t wash. Save everything.