In the bottom of my bottom drawer,
my swimming suit hides beneath t-shirts
and mini skirts, all of them wrinkled.
The bikini top strings are untied—
they snake around the dark space
like the sprouted eyes of potatoes.
All this waiting. Somewhere there is light.
The shape of the suit remembers
what it is like to hold things in
and keep things up. It remembers
the way the ocean waves tugged at its knots,
the gritty insistence of sand.
Outside, it is snowing again—
snow on the buds of the lilac tree,
snow on the first green of parsley.
Inside, there is this woman
who has stuffed things into dark corners.
I have nearly forgotten what it is
to be warm, warm enough
to wear next to nothing, warm enough
not to cover my heart with layer
after heavy layer. I am learning
how what is forgotten doesn’t really
go away. The shape of me
remembers how to pull my arms
through the water, how to tread
to stay on top. Outside, the sound
of the plow scrapes past. I am wondering
what else might be in that bottom drawer.
