Ode to Dressing Gown and Slippers

i
Pink bunnies romp
on seersucker fields
and hop downstairs with me
and my fluffy, flop-eared slippers
to breakfast in my first motel.

Bumpity thump, from stair to stair
mother's crossed arm toe tap
waits at the bottom.

ii
Knobbles of candlewick cuddle
the bulb of my pregnancy,
little froglet plopping
in its skin pond.

Feet and fingers,
breasts and belly,
swell to burst their ripe,
overripe, pods. Rings and slippers
no longer fit. Laid aside,
in seclusion together, we await
the harvest dawn.

iii
In the blood silk of a man's robe
I wrap myself with green, gold,
and navy medallions. Badges awarded
for outstanding bravery. Scars bound
in seductive winding sheet, my wounds
are held in check. Sealed and cauterized
in fabric flames, engulfed like witches
on a pyre of sticks. My feet burn
in soft beaded jandals.
I seek the path to Shakyamuni
or some more restful god of pink
dressing gowns and rabbit slippers.