Warm and not quite dry, each sock, each
random piece of underwear, each
towel, a reminder of your
presence in each day. Each cotton
fabric tells me you have substance
giving shape to flaccid cloth and
also to my life. The ankle-
length short socks have swelled with toes and
tarsals, just as I have grown more
fulsome since you came into my
world. Your panties, simple, soft, and
supple, match the flesh that weekly
fills them, touch your buttocks and in
doing so define their shape, and
in this way suggest the cleft that
marks the two-part structure of your
place in marriage, lover, worker,
both in equal parts. Your bra: still
clinging to the things around it,
lucky cloth that rubs your breasts, your
nipples with each turn and stretch you
make throughout your day – my lips, my
palms, my fingers volunteer to
take your place on any day you
need a rest – and let your breasts give
loving shape to me. The towel,
luckiest of all, not only
sees you naked every day but
touches, rubs, caresses every
part of you, a service I am
glad to carry on instead as
often as you want to ask me.