Shirt Closet
My life has slithered
toward a man’s hand down my blouse
among a closet full of shirts.
Not the cheap kind, but perfectly laundered
Brooks Brothers with faint blue stripes.
My nipples harden among the Tattersall English Collars,
Bengal striped pinpoint oxfords, all perfectly hung,
just like my husband’s was, only a size larger.
A lifetime of mornings-after when he would come around
to my side of the bed to plant an appreciative kiss
as he fit the white buttons into tiny slits
down to the bottom of the shirt and then pulled
the silk diamond-patterned tie through the collar.
Ties, beautifully spun and silky smooth,
bold paisley, golden striped, double checked, burgundy floral.
Now, at my ripened age,
the light flickers, the closet becomes dark,
and a hand wanders downward, tremors
of pleasure and regret.
Harriet Shenkman is a professor emerita at City University of New York and over seventy years old. Their one collection of poetry is Wonder Wheel, recently published by Grayson Press. They are a first generation American born in Brooklyn.
The Marbled Sigh 