Poetry: Drawers

A Poem

Drawers.

I have people like
laundry
folded in drawers.

There, the navy
t-shirt,
the first boy
I ever fell in love with,
and I was always
so cold,
he just would not
look at me twice.

Here,
the short shawl
with so many holes,
the husband
that did not choose me
again and again.

The woollen mittens,
mismatched colours,
but perfect
when worn together,
my children.

God, my children.

Him,
the khaki blanket
I will never wrap myself
in again,
there are fates worse
than death.

Other people,
less, but not lesser -
the ivory him, the pastels them,
the screaming blue.

The black turtleneck
that reaches with one hand
into my heart and does not let go
of my jugular,
that is me,
I have learned how
to hold myself
finally and allow
the gurgle of life
to go on and on -
despite the night,
I am always warm.

The laundry is done,
the clothes are neatly placed
in their place,
the drawers are closed
as I sit naked,
with air
moistened with peace,
my closure that only
I can give myself.

That art
that took me
a full forty years
to learn to wear.

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