I wear my ambition

I wear my ambition like a shirt

Monday's wrinkles show signs of neglect

hidden in the dark of a closet for some days when I could not

spill the stains of motherhood upon it.

I understand what it means to pull it, fresh, from the
laundry, warmed over and new-smelling; clean for me

To slip it on ---

the ends of follicles yawning upward from unused arms
the scent permeating through a nostril and tapping on a

dormant thought

The first wear is reverent and grateful,

With movements slow and deliberate
I do not mind the stiffness of its cuff.
I dare not press into its fabric with my wait.
At the end of the day I may remove it delicately
and hang it in good view, protected, ready.
I may slip on the flick of light and look at it again---
hold it mentally hostage so as to dream of it.

The next wears are less electric.
Less ceremonious.
We know each other, now.
Space between us dissipates to may way for a softer cling.
We fit and glide together as a team,
unapologetic,
toward the first spoil.
Soon we are dirty
with the sweat of inspired action.
The droplets fuse us in places.
By now it knows the crooks of me
and I the bends of it.
We sleep together,

But Friday's morning brings threat of domesticity
and jealous duties, wanting the touch of this woman's hand.
And so I finger the button hovering at my heart's front
through its hole
down past an artist's gut and lower chakras
until it drops
to hug an ankle one last time.

Flicked
into the blackest corner of a closet
where it will wait patiently
for this body to return.