The Peignoir


Vintage, perfect, unused
or nearly. Black silk soft
washing across the body
ivory lace crisp at the wrist
throat, thigh


Who
long ago was treasured so much
or not? Who laid her
head upon his shoulder
and fell asleep in peace
Perchance woken later,
feeling the hand, just there
thrill with the touch
trill and twine --
or not?


Did he stand behind her
at the mirror as he let
down her hair? Watch it open
as she raised her arms to
brush? Fall shut as he wrapped his arms
around her, stopped the ritual,
began the next?


Old dolls, I know:
each perfect doll equals
one unhappy child
not permitted to ruin her
toy. . . . Kept for posterity.
Perhaps later pleased to pass
perfection to later generations


Peignoirs? A woman so glad
for the memories she wished to keep them?
Folded carefully between layers
of blue tissue. . .
Or desire cut short, too soon?


I choose to believe the first,
but that isn't my plan


I wish to see again and again
your eyes moving to the
perfect triangle between
the ivory lace as the black silk swings
open and closes again
briefly. . . .


To feel over and over
the shot of joy
as your lips curve
into that gorgeous wide gull-wing smile
which opens your whole face and soul to me
and to close my eyes and
fall, then rise and rise
and fly
And wake æons later to find
the rumpled pile of silk and lace
on the floor beside our bed


I plan to wear this vintage peignoir
perfectly out







jjl
27 June 2008