The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Hedy Habra

The Camisole


The silk fabric slides between my fingers, I still feel the softness of its essential oils, permeating my skin, pungent and smooth as though I'd woven it just for you with spikes harvested from endless lavender fields in Provence, or as though I were a silk worm raised on lavender petals, and I'd spun that silken thread to wrap around me when you'd finally come, all that and more I dreamt of offering you, year after year, and here we are, that is, my camisole and I, waiting for you in the silence of that hotel room.

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