As I closed the door
my heart raced
as it does after a nightmare.
Ten minutes ago he asked
if I would wear his class ring.
I panicked, sputtering excuses:
“You paid a lot of money for it,”
and “It’s way too big.”
I’m not ready
to be stamped with his brand.
I’ll put on Daddy’s old sweatshirt
and hug my arms around my middle.
Big and baggy is in
and boys don’t stare.
I wear Daddy’s blue oxford dress shirts,
bass fishing tournament tees
(even though I hate flying hooks)
and printed rayon button-downs.
My favorite shirt drapes softly over me
with its moody kaleidoscope:
dark blues and purples, greens and magenta
fragmented by black lines
like a Tiffany lampshade.
When I look through the violet panes
melancholy floods me
and I long for the touch
of something just beyond my reach.