Word Dough

One of my most treasured childhood memories, enshrined in the olfactory bulb, was the aroma of a newly opened can of Playdough. The smell was the same in every can, though I was very cognizant of the colored top I was reaching for. Though it was rarely found in my home (I'm guessing as a result of frequently leaving the lid off that resulted in a hardened unpliable mess necessitating a new batch), it was a reliable item in the Sunday School classroom and Kindergarten supply closet. It was wonderful in every sense.
From this endearing memory, I have titled the work that is often required when writing poetry, or any other writing endeavor. But for me, the molding and pliablility of sculpting the words into rhythm, meter and form that is as pleasant to the poet as to the reader, is filled with the wonder reminiscent of shared play between two.
It is to this end, I will strive to share a poem weekly, under my pen name S.L. Margaret.
The first entry in Word Dough, entitled Closeted, is the current circumstance we collectively find ourselves in as the pandemic rages. We are isolated and feel unseen, though upon our daily awakening when we feel the burden of facing a new day, I believe it is the collective groan and shared grief of many we are experiencing.


Closeted

We are unseen
like our former selves escaping high school corridors
rushing to our closets of safety- matching tops to skirts
layering dresses with boots
so that we, even we, could be the Lauren Hutton’s
of fashion if given the opportunity-
cheek bones blushed/ black lights strobing
our birthday parties of laughter and frozen bras

Now we thumb through mailers
lacking interest in fingered store fronts
staring at the hanging frocks
and shells of winter white
knowing they will be closeted this season of
firs and lights

There is no cause excusing frivolity
but only to ourselves before we grow too old
to remember the sanctum of our imaginary lives
when passed unseen by the boy in the hall.

S.L. Margaret