… rantings of a depressive procrastinator. Did I mention, I write? …

First Day of School, September ‘46

Big Chief tablets’ pulpy smell
waxy Crayola promises –
sharply pointed
snug new label matches
the crayon’s shade, new label tight as
last year’s shirt.

My brother’s shirt two years back,
I sob. People will know.
No one remembers, Momma soothes. A blouse
is a shirt, buttons different is all.

Spruced up now, thin fingers
whip-stitch rick-rack, plunge the blouse nee shirt
into the steaming tub of the wringer washer,
into a bath of pink Rit dye.

 I watch the baptism, amazed by
A  transformation of old into new
boy into girl.
Garments have gender, you know—it rubs off of the wearer.
A cotton blouse
Pink as a blush
now mine.

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