I know she doesn’t want me
to wear it. Couture, cut
to make olive drab pose
in ways it never has before.
Eight micro buttons on each long cuff.
Four on each epaulet.
Puffy sleeves, draping drab
fabric to tuck at the waist.
She’s left for the day and I dress
for school. She likes to tell her friends
I’m tall enough now, we can share clothes.
When I tuck her couture blouse into jeans
with squaw boots I look like an album cover.
M*A*S*H makes drab fab, claiming the color
of war while swearing never again. Peacock
earrings. Twenty tiny buttons down the front.
She beats me home. She doesn’t want me
to wear it like that. Never with jeans,
it’s expensive. Tuck it into a skirt. I imagine
showing her Carly Simon, designer top,
torn denim, high heel sandals.
High school, I don’t hide now. The unhinged
commences. I am to never wear couture with jeans.
I just statue for the screaming and throwing.
Her fashion moment was the poodle skirt.
I freeze time, picture the sculpted drab
M*A*S*H blouse bunched under the white
leather belt of a pink poodle skirt. War.
She’s left for the day and I shop her closet.
Washed again, the blouse hangs judged
and punished. Cuffs, epaulets, down the front,
every place where a ridiculous button had been,
now there’s a frantic, star shaped hole, eight
on each arm, four at each shoulder, scissored,
not at the thread, but deeper.
Down the torso, twenty. A few on the pockets.
A system of voids, hanged, closeted,
I am next./It could be me.