There is something about seeing a woman
in a man’s clothes
that hints at recent sins,
for where are her own clothes
and why does she choose to wear
a man’s shirt? A man’s stink?
His salty passions, faded nights
written sartorially in drink?
The wood of his wardrobe
and his love of meatballs?

Jackets are overcoats, clothes lie,
skin peeks from behind rolled up sleeves
pants are dated, we say, fuck pants.
There is a sense that what I’ve been wearing
has never seen better days.
I study this creature with a cat’s grace
masquerading in a mongrel’s wrinkled skin.

It is then I decide that these clothes
are no longer mine, that they belong
to she who they’ve chosen and that
I’d rather be naked than feel the shame
of being second best for my own things.
Quietly, I peel her like an orange,
tongues singing like electricity.


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