choosing my camisole
Autumn nudges through an open window into my dressing room,
where I brush my hair across shoulders, empty of touch.

The battenberg swells in a cool rush of air, the wooden shutters
sway like a pendulum; they beacon another year without you.

Carefully, I mist cologne to reach the tender sides of my seams,
my neck, my navel, the places where your head would nest.

Far away you sleep without me, on the wrong side of my soul.
Another bedside table holds your watch, your water glass.
18 sep 2000

Mia Moore