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Her Things

September 20, 2008 by · 4 comments

Barbara Sabol

moving on
Photo: Auntie P

I found them afterwards, clearing out
her dresser drawers. Folded, still
in tissue that had yellowed
but held its crease, nearly sleek
as its forgotten contents. Tissue
fluttered open as I lifted them
like lost parcels
unwrapped, fragile.

These years they lined the blond
oak dresser, beneath sensible
rayon blouses, pilling cotton tee’s.
No one would have known, except him,
perhaps, if he’d ever been home
to watch her dressing, to say,
wear that black, the silky one,

Then she would have felt
the lush fabric
feathering her sides
as she shifted her slight weight
to recross her legs or when walking
with a bit of a sway
into the next room, aware
his eyes might follow.

I like to think of her
wearing one now,
a suggestion of cleavage –
no more. And he,
with the luxury of time,
with the inclination, would rise
from his seat in utter
and needless admiration.

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