What To Wear (Poetry)

I wore posh undies for your funeral —
black edged with red, quite classy —
I think you’d have approved my conscious choice
and as it crossed my mind
my half-formed giggle joined your voice —
the girl you were egging me on

from dance nights at the youth club when we used to dress alike —
white mini dresses, matching kinky boots, our eyes
bold with Mary Quant, smudged Biba blue
while taking turns to chat up the DJ
get him to play some slow and smoochy song
as we swayed around, our tear-proof lashes batting at the boys.

Your wedding, and you dieted to stun —
slim in lace and glowing — the cliché
that made the cliché. Thirty years on
the photos show you fashion cover chic —
trim goddess of the day.

Forty, and a knitted suit, pale blue
that hugged your celebrating curves
mature and radiating style, your pearls were glamour —
a chunky pseudo row — on you they shone like ocean seeds.

The nose stud followed later —
perhaps a last ditch stand against
the sickly uniformity you knew you faced.
Although you joked, the choosing of a wig
and a false breast to make your image less
frightening for us seemed surreal —
like wearing fancy dress.

The last time we went out to dinner
you sported a tan leather skirt —
new, I guessed, expensive. You smoothed it
as you sat, were careful not to crease it, keen
to keep it looking good.

I imagine all those clothes found empty of you —
the white mini dress, the wedding gown, the blue
knitted suit and that tan leather skirt
hanging in Oxfam, spaced by decades.
Fashion flies a fickle sun —
fierce-glowing as it sinks, abruptly fades.

The day we saw you off I wore a printed cotton sunfrock —
underneath it, mourning lace.