98poems/purple

In my last burst of youth
I bought purple panties,
an act, like most,
visible only by looking back.

Some women hold on longer,
like my sister in her sixties
with magenta negligees.

I have long preferred cotton,
even before middle age.
And white next to my skin.

But that is not the point.
There is that corner we turn
when it is all different.
We are different.
Is that the reason
for this odd anxiety,
this strange nervousness,
the fact that I don’t
understand where I am?

I bought purple panties
that winter, with a matching bra
that was a poor fit.
I used to think it a regal color,
I bought a lot of bras that winter.

But all that is settled now.
I know which panties I wear,
and the bras, when I can find them.
I want to have these things
figured out at last.

Strange men nag their wives
after moving my daughter’s
underwear drawers. Her floral
lingerie makes them want more
from life.

And that is what drove me
to purple, to an itchy synthetic
fabric.

What does it matter now?
I never had the underwear
my daughter does. I can’t
think that I want it,
but is that just giving up?
And what exactly does that mean?
What are the alternatives?
Is it fighting or giving up,
trying or giving up,
resisting or giving up?
If you aren’t giving up
what are you doing?

7/27/98