A suit. Or a dress.
Slipped on at birth—
ours, but never owned.
Wrong color at times,
too tight or too loose—
no returns, no exchanges.
We envy other fabric,
admiring their fit and shine,
while resenting our own.
Yet this one grows with us,
knitting its diary:
a coffee stain from a fall,
a tear of adventure,
a cigarette burn of a first love,
a smudge of labor.
We dance in it,
sleep in it,
fill its pockets with regrets.
It wrinkles at sorrows,
washes in joy.
Then it fades.
The journey ends,
and we finally realize—
it was the most exquisite garment.
It’s time to return it.
Slipped off—still warm,
carrying the scent of our name,
buried in earth’s drawer,
stripped of all accessories.
Thread unravels from thread—
until the last stitch
dissolves into air.
Whose garment was it?
© 2026 WolverineLily 🌺
Alright, you.
You tripped the trigger in my head.
Hang on.
Weird, is it not? So many people identify with this meager sleeve you wrote about. I’m from Tribe X due to the hue of my suit. And you? You are a member of Tribe Z due the hue of your suit. Yet, for some, the evaluation goes no further. They may also assume the array of sense organs on their head to be as a matter of course. Hardly will we hear of anyone realizing that the array is gathered on the head for the purpose of survival. Imagine if these organs were on our knees. I know you have already questioned this…thus the poem.
Your poem pushes the reader to consider all of those wordy ideas I just typed. Look at the rigor you wielded in how meager you were with words per line. Amazing. Look at the punch you achieve with this bare skeleton. Truly influential.
Overall, as I read your poem, Hsu Yun came to mind. He famously asked one of his students, “Who drags this corpse around?”
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Thank you for such a close reading. I’m not familiar with Hsu Yun (yet), but that quote gave me chills.
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Thank you for providing such a wonderful repast to discuss. Yum!
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