Beneath black lace shot through with
burgundy,
beneath teal and pink homespun woven
twill,
beneath stiff cotton calico printed
with fish,
lies a bright crumpled bedsheet, pilly
from previous ownership.
Down on the floor, the fitted sheet
curls up,
pillbug-style, until shears snip off
long curly worms of elastic. Docile
now,
the sheet settles thinly over the
floorboards.
A template is traced on ninety-nine
cent newsprint.
paper purchased for drawing naked
bodies
now helps clothe them. Five rectangles
yield three flat panels. Front. Back.
Sleeve.
Leftover horizontal sheet hems want to
become
shirt hems. The sleeves receive the
offering,
but the torso panels sling sideways,
cut so that they will stripe
lengthwise.
At this stage, the shirt animates.
Yellow,
threaded through a needle that last
knew a quilt,
sews two short shoulder seams, two side
seams.
only the sleeves wait to be
de-amputated.
No time now. Tempting to wear the
torso
to the dance, but raw edges seem too
risky.
soon, though, this rainbow shirt will
join
the soul clothes: red-ribbed body suit,
knitted corset, tattoo.
The needle is my mother’s.
This shirt cost me seven hours and
seventy-five cents.
I will wear it because in it I will
feel naked.
