Standing in front of my dresser,
cozy in my pink pajamas,
flannel and fluffy and covered with owls.
What to wear today?
I hate my clothes.
I blame them all.
Concealing clothes:
Empire waists and sloppy Ts
used to hide my belly.
I was not ready
to speak of it.
I might call down The End
again.
As if a monstrous fate
lay in wait,
listening for the announcement.
Finally my rounded middle announced for me.
The time had come for hope.
Take a deep breath and slide on
the Hopeful clothes:
Roomier cuts,
pleats, ruching, and tucks
designed to expand
along with me,
fat and happy.
Elastic waist bands meant to grow,
one month from the bag and back they go.
I shrivel,
physically and mentally,
into the Skinny clothes.
I shudder as they skim my hips.
The zipper zips.
The button fits.
Everything just so.
But no.
It should not be!
These are the clothes that ought to be packed,
Shoved to the back.
A heartening promise:
Someday I’ll be small again.
Not a cruel taunt:
I cannot grow big with Life.
And there’s no one to blame.
Not doctor, husband, priest or God.
Not even myself although I’ve tried.
Nothing to be done.
Nothing left to say.
And so I’ll blame my clothes.
My flannel owls and I
Stay curled up at home another day.
The Unrepeatables 