Sweater of Me
Sweater of Me
Songs
of my father’s
belly laughter
flow through the eye
of the needle
and around the loom
with each abdominal contraction.
It reminds me of
home.
Snip
I miss it.
A downpour soaks
fuzzy yarn.
The scent
of early fall droplets
perfumes the beginning
of my garment.
Gilmore Girls
“la la la ahh”
Sings
from the small black television.
Sam Phillips’ voice carries
in and out of my ears,
in my loom,
and stops.
The cloth holds her soft voice like a southern mother’s cookie jar. Always full of love, sweet to anyone who touches it.
Pumpkin Spice Lattes cascade
down my throat.
The last few drops
I failed
to force to drip down the downturned plastic cup
evaporate.
This airy epitome of fall
is blown
with brown and orange leaves
into the loom.
Now I buy
my own lattes.
I am growing older
faster
than I want to.
Then
I wanted to.
The words of my favorite book lift
off the pages
through the small hole
and into my garment.
Lines of the English-translated prose
stretch out of Times New Roman formality into
casual,
almost straight,
horizontal lines.
The fox’s secret
woven inside the pocket
on the left side of the chest,
an extra piece of warmth,
padding,
knowledge.
“What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
Keep it there,
hold it.
Close
to the heart.
Feel it.
Know it.
A life lesson.
Pink, yellow, orange highlights detach
from their corresponding words.
They transform
into a warm sweater.
Ready for autumn,
memorable threads braid
like my brown hair.
Delicious pumpkin
and cool rainfall twirls around my body.
Familiarity radiates
from the ends of the soft sleeves,
right at the wrist.
The scent will last
forever.
Comfortable
Cozy
Familiar
Each memory falls
into place,
weaved into one masterpiece.
Pieces of myself encompass me.
Now
I proudly wear
this creation.
I proudly display
my colors.
tip–
tap–
dink–
t– t– p–
t– p–
Nostrils flaring,
lashes flitting,
snowflakes attacking
my new bedroom window.
I enjoy the snow.
I always have.
This does not
change.
Fortunately, I will slip
my sweater
over my head
and remember each thread
as they swirl around my body
like a film rolling
through my mind.
I am comfortable
I am
home.
It is my birthday.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
I still miss my bedroom.
Sixteen …
The Voice
September 2024
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