Textile Memoirs

Alexandria Simmons

Printed camo more familiar than his face,

Dad’s old Army uniform is rough,

Uncomfortable, and thin.

I’d hate to wear it,

If it didn’t remind me of him.

I was once given a ribbon:

Three bells ziptied attached.

Homemade, he clasped around my neck

With double-sided tape.

It slid across my fingertips, smoothly,

The way my scissors shred it’s satin.

With dark hair, white shirt

And expensive black leather

The “Danny Zuko” suitor was different;

He publically proposed a date in song.

In my closet your sunglasses collect dust,

But you can trust that even if it were a choice,

I could never forget your voice.

The equivalent of a Chinese penny

Strung on black greasy cord

Was offered to me by a man

Who gave me vodka in a lecture.

He said it was water, but then again,

He also said I’d be beautiful

With grey eyes.

The Fourth drawled “Damnn”

When I slipped on his blue-collar button-up,

“How does getting dressed

Make you even sexier?”

But when I was screaming that he was hitting

Too much and pulling my hair too hard

All he grunted was “good”.

I had the intention to end the collection

When I met my new man, younger than me

But abundant in naivety.

Under thick woolen fabric not yet mine,

My nose tickles from a thousand lint balls.

I let him pull over us his blanket,

And I purposely breathe-in and hold close

The safety in his scent; cataloging it into memory.

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