The Closet By Hannah Pedersen

My Mother’s Closet

BY KATE BUCKLEY

I had a fascination with your dresses — the greens, brocades,

the belted shapes which spoke of you more poignantly

than the photos in their careful frames.

Your shoes were their own country, the heels, satins,

the inexplicable mud — I scraped them with small fingernails,

marveling at the gorgeous debris, wishing I had a microscope.

I searched your handbags, examined them for signs,

evidence — where you were going, where you had been:

tickets, lipstick, inked hieroglyphics, a broken comb.

I even smelled your stockings, sniffing at the crotches

like a dog, frantic for any trace of you, my eyes raking

their length, wondering at ladders, searching for clues.

My father came upon me once, cross-legged on the floor,

his sad smile telling me more than any detection —

he took my hand, and closed the door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Closet By Hannah Pedersen

I grew up surrounded with your clothes- the silks, cashmeres,

the denim layers knew more of you

than the stories I had heard

Your size 9 shoes spoke their own language, the pumps, flats,

the leather and rubber- singing in cursive against my small feet,  lost in translation,

in awe of the poised mud, strategizing creating some of my own.

I dove into your handbags, too heavy to lift on my arm

weights- of your day and where it would end:

lipstick, scribbled plans, organized chaos I did not understand.

I even smelled your jackets, scent strong in the evening,

like a bloodhound, trained in their locations, memorized perfumes,

wondering their origin, searching for answers.

You caught me in your closet once, burrowed deep in clues,

your tired smile more telling than the rest-

you took my hand, and closed the door.