Again in memory I wear my robe
of painted silk, and you lie underneath,
your body both a cushion and a probe
for mine, your skin engaged between my teeth.
Your errant flesh remembers me; you feel
insistent as my robe caresses you.
You take me through the fabric till we peel
away the silken folds of flowered blue.

My robe recalls our year of laughing late,
the texture of your nape against my lips.
It ought to warm my heart, but if I rolled
its cloth around me it would irritate
and torment me, for chill your absence grips
me now, and silk is useless in this cold.

(I thought I’d save these memories to feel on sadder days,
to carry me through agony or stress.
But when I try to use them, I get punishing replays,
and what appeared a pearl is an abscess.)