Napo 25

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. 

Her Wardrobe

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.