The Skirt


 

You laid your plaited skirt
on the foot of my bed,
neatly folded as though
in doing so you could somehow
retain your virtue.  In the midst
of our fleshy thrashings, I kicked
it to the floor, and you began
to cry, deep sobs that rattled
the mattress springs.  I moved,
too reluctantly, to retrieve it
but you said, “Why bother?”
Making love doesn’t always
mean making sense, and so
I threw my feet to the floor,
pulled on my jeans, and looked
back, although I would never be
able to see.
“So that’s it?” you sobbed.
In affirmation, I buttoned my
shirt and turned toward the door,
…as an afterthought, picked up
your once plaited skirt, tossed it
carelessly over my shoulder,
and left.

3 thoughts on “The Skirt

  1. rachel bar says:

    You’ve been quiet for a while?

    • dlmchale says:

      Rachel…it has been awhile. I’ve hit a dark spell and have no energy or inspiration to write. I am working with an editor in England toward possible publication, but her criticisms have me feeling quite discouraged. I’ll write again soon. Thank you for expressing concern.

      • rachel bar says:

        Sorry to hear that. Sometimes it’s good to just stop and pause. Things seem better after a while. You’re really good but people have different tastes and preferences. Hold on to your uniqueness.

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