Erica Minton

WEAR

There are bumps in her sleeves
where her elbows go. Her clothes
know her, holding her contours
when she’s gone, limp versions
of her body strewn on chairs.
Her ribs are on hangers, her hips
are all over the house— fabric
can’t forget her. At night, unskinned,
she takes only what she needs
to sleep— takes knees, takes eyelids,
takes the best part of her spine,
leaves wrists and ankles lying
along the rim of the sink. Denied
a body, her dreams are of the ground—
the feel of it, the need for it,
the humility of one day sinking deep
and watching sepia slideshows.
Dirt might finally, loosely, forget
her imprint, some day down the road,
some day beyond the body, in a moment
so distant she can only fathom it
in the sweat of dreams. Meanwhile,
somewhere in her closet,
sweaters twitch.