The Yellow Satchel

She approaches, 
Eyes gleaming 
Brighter than my countenance. 
It isn’t hard to tell 
She is quite taken by me 
And she lets herself dream 
For a moment 
How enriched her life would be 
With me in it. 

Joy unbridled beams from within 
As she touches and strokes 
And holds me close – 
As close as she is to ecstasy. 
She drapes me across herself – 
Strap running diagonally 
Left shoulder to right hip – 
And stands in front of the mirror, 
Turns this way and that, 
Admiring me from every angle. 

And then it happens – 
The shadow creeps across her face, 
A cloud as dark as the clothing 
In which she is clad head to toe. 
It comes as no surprise. 
I have seen this so many times. 
The doubt that invades 
And grows wild and smothers 
Delicate confidence 
Like Japanese Knotweed 
Killing off a garden. 

It is always the same ones – 
The ones that dress to hide 
Supposedly unacceptable bodies 
And make an art of 
Fading into backgrounds. 
Though their hearts desire me, 
I am too obvious. 
I am made to stand out 
And snag covetous second glances. 

Which is the problem you see. 
If she were to wear me 
I would catch the eyes of others 
Just as I caught hers. 
But those other eyes 
Won’t limit themselves 
To looking only at me. 
They will look at the wearer, 
And this wearer doesn’t want
To be seen. 

But, oh, how she desires me! 
She gives me another chance, 
Looks again at her reflection, 
Murmurs ‘Can I get away with it?’ 
I want to tell her she can. 
Worries about getting away with things 
Are for thieves and adulterers, 
Not for women whose only crime 
Is to be bigger than society 
Thinks they should be. 
She can wear whatever she wants. 

But I can’t tell her this. 
And even if I could, 
It wouldn’t mean a thing. 
The no-she-can’t has settled 
Firmly in her mind. 
So she returns me to the shelf 
And leaves the shop behind, 
And I watch her go and hope 
That at the very least 
She will continue to carry with her 
A little bit of my light.