Now there are two nightgowns: Grey and the short black one
The grey I bought for an old lover (it always came off)
and the short black one, lacy, (not this one), scared him off.
He would ask who had seen it before and whose skin it had touched.
But now there are two nightgowns, grey and the short black one.
The grey I kept as evidence, the black one has been washed.
The grey was worn in London’s morning time
– its stains the scene of our body crime and the black was worn at night time in Ireland
– next to Galway Bay
In an innocence of room down Nora Barnacle’s way.
He kissed my breasts, unlike you did
And his deep voice, once purposeful blew my mind
But your hand had stronghold underneath the grey
And your aged manly designs.
I remember both men’s feet; I preferred his barreled hairy chest.
He pet my back when I coughed, and he stole a kiss
then another kiss.