pure

Wardrobe

I am wooden and rectangular
like an upright coffin, skeletons and skins inside
I am of similar depth to hold her body
a tall silhouette, handles aged and fading

I hoard her collections
each piece reminiscent of another time and place
creased hands invite in light each morning
I hardly recognize her anymore

In darkest corner hidden behind colourless clothes
still; the red dress he bought her
high heels organized on shelves out of view
like a sentimental slide show laid to rest

I watch as she covers her figure, wearing clothes like souvenirs
soon to be widowed from what is held within my walls
once house has been inherited, red dress and heels found
all items tell her tale, missed, like youth itself




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