What the women wore

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.

poetrybusiness.co.uk/product/the-north-62-the-alive-and-kicking-issue/