Purple Jeans
When I bought the jeans he was alive.
I was so excited to find jeans
in the perfect shade of purple,
right size and length.
I was on my way to a meeting.
I was killing time when the jeans caught my eye.
A few hours later I had purple jeans
and a white-hot piece of knowledge.
I wonder if I’ll ever wear the jeans now
or if wearing them will always make me think of Dave dying
– as if the jeans had murdered him!
As if denim has anything to do
with chasing yourself down a blind alley.
Was he wearing jeans when he stopped being alive?
Did he slide his belt from the loops holding it in place?
Did the person who found him hate that belt
for forgetting its purpose
and becoming extraordinary?
He couldn’t carry any more, not even
the weight of his own body.
He will never wear jeans again.
He will never go through the dull
but soothing morning routine.
In a bathroom somewhere
a toothbrush is waiting for his mouth.
His glasses are cold on the bedside table.
Someone needs to tell them.
Someone needs to inform his suits.
They’re waiting so patiently
for the privilege of being worn by him.
…
Rowena Knight is a queer feminist living in Bristol. Her poems have appeared in Butcher’s Dog, Magma, The Rialto, and The Emma Press Anthology of Love. Her poetry pamphlet is All the Footprints I Left Were Red (Valley Press, 2016). Twitter: @purple_feminist Instagram: @purple_feminist_
atriumpoetry.com 