A new poem by Fiona Kidman.

The clothes of the dead

I did not keep my mother’s furry red beret for long
nor the stringy scarves that adorned the necks
of my aunts, although I have kept tag ends of gold,
the rings and trinkets they wore, the brooches
no longer fashionable, although sometimes I will
pin one to my hat the way the grandmothers
and their mothers did. But, still, I am haunted

by an unexpected find in the back of a wardrobe,
my husband’s suit and best tie, as if he might
appear dressed for an occasion at any moment,
while in another closet hang his corduroy
jackets beloved by his grandsons, worn once
or twice a year when they visit. And here,

just this morning, I have opened a drawer
of brand-new jumpers my friend never got to wear,
they are turquoise and scarlet and green and, this winter
a year on, I swear I will draw them over my head, one
at a time and weather away storms listening to the swell
of her voice, that rising tempo, the actor’s final flourish.

The Friday Poem is edited by Chris Tse. Submissions are currently closed.