On a coat hanger, a bathrobe
rests against his bedroom door.
He enjoys them nylon or silk,
shawl or kimono, open-fronted
and opposite his bed, so he can
imagine the women inside them.
This one is blue, tight-fitting
and lighter than the others.
When our mother first stayed
with him, it was a pink dressing
gown, long and loose, lined
with fleece for the winter nights,
that she donned like it was hers.
For their bitter cold breakfasts
the robe was always there, until
she learnt the name of the wearer,
the woman who came before
and it didn’t feel right anymore
so she bought the pastel blue.
No cotton velour, no cashmere
wrap, but a housecoat worn
in the day too, quilted and cool
for any occasion, like the morning
he woke and told her it was over.
“It’s blue,” said Mum, rifling
through the box that he left outside.
We found no clothes. Her brow
furrowed, then a hollow laugh rose
from deep within. “It’s with him.”
What lady paraded our mother
around, sipping from the same mug,
slipping on the same knitted socks
he offered her? Mum recalled how
she’d put on the pink, a little bit smug,
secretly pleased that she was the one
with her hands inside of its pockets.
Published by The Poetry Business as part of Abbie's poetry pamphlet 'Threadbare' in June 2020. To find out more or to buy the book, see here.
First published in 2019 as part of a two-page spread in The North, 62: The Alive and Kicking issue.