Ode to my Bathrobe
I’ve worn this robe
Through some of the best moments
Of my life, when, waking in the morning,
Unhinging myself from his arms,
The embrace of the bed,
To be born again in the warm bath
Of morning sunlight.
I wear this robe
As I stumble from bedroom
To kitchen, fill the kettle
With water, and prepare
The morning coffee.
I’ve worn this bathrobe
Through my sicknesses—
It’s soaked the sweat from fevers,
Comforted me as I lie on the sofa,
Kept my flush skin warm.
When I shed it like a second skin,
it falls to my feet, lifeless but forgiving.
It wears the holes of cats’ claws,
The stains of coffee,
The frays of laundry soap.
It always hangs at the ready,
From a chair, at the foot of the bed,
And sometimes, in the closet,
Waiting for my body
To animate it, bring it back to life.
It never demands much—
Like a pair of jeans that digs into the hips,
Or a collared shirt, stiff against the neck.
I fasten it around my waist,
Relax my gut, slip my arms
Into its arms like it was made for me.
This bathrobe wraps my body in warmth
In polyester, in love, in forgiveness.