My old night-dress
I found it at the bottom of the drawer
a faint smell of perfume still lingered
brought back memories.
I was young then and he was
alive, blood throbbed
through our veins, his body naked,
lay next to me, with only thin cotton
to separated us.
There will be cells of him still here,
hidden in the folds, tiny atoms, floating.
I can breathe him in, almost feel him beside
me, hear the soft snore he made
when he lay on his back, feel the warmth
of his breath when his lips pressed my cheek.
I made love in this shift, birthed in it.
There are tears embedded in this fabric
blood; breast milk and a baby’s sigh.
This is a very old night-dress, it is bleached
almost white with washing.
The flower pattern is very faded. I should throw
it away really or rip it up for dusters.
But I won’t do that; instead I will wear it like
a wedding dress, go to bed alone.
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