Today's prompt was to write about a small, defined space. I chose my closet, but then I thought that maybe the word closet has some connotations that I probably don't have the right to play with, so I switched closet to wardrobe. Anyway, I used to have a wardrobe as a kid, so it works.
The end of the poem surprised ME. I wasn't thinking of Eve, but at the end, it kind of made sense. Later on, I'll come back to this poem and work her in throughout, though I like the surprise at the end so I'll just leave some breadcrumb hints.
Wardrobe, the wooden cave
Where she keeps her arsenal
Of identities. Some hidden, shoved
To the back, a go-go skirt
Decades out of style,
Inches too short for the legs
That move her through the world today.
Some, out front, the faded black dress,
Understated, demure, but cinched
In at the waist just right.
Tennis shoes, beat up, rest
Underneath old t-shirts,
Some too big, some too small, some stained.
This is who she is: each day,
She rises from the dust of her bed,
Opens up the wardrobe door
And faces the darkness that she is,
Fingers the textures, silk, cotton, polyester.
Skirts and dresses. Pants and shorts.
Heels and flats. Blouses and tank-tops.
The sun outside demands
She pull a piece of herself
Out of the dark depths,
Wrap herself in the trappings
Of who she wants the world to think she is.
A tailored suitcoat – bitch
A flowery sundress – prissy bimbo
That miniskirt – slut.
Eve makes her choice,
Shuts the wardrobe door
With a thud and a grunt,
invites the sun kiss her flesh.