Yellow Paisley Shirt
Sept 9 2010


Busy fingers pick
at loose threads,
finish tucking-in.
Then she licks her hand
tames my cowlick with a few firm strokes
— glued with spit
into presentable order.

And corrals me
in bony arms as strong as a mother grizzly,
holds me to her soft warm body
in the suffocating scent
of old lady
and too much perfume.
I resist, then grow limp
with a kid’s brief forbearance,
‘til I can make my escape
from such an unmanly display
of affection.

I preferred wrestling
tousled hair
canvas sneakers and sweats,
to this yellow paisley shirt
with the scratchy neck,
and short sleeves
that made my arms look even skinnier.
And these wool pants, cuffed and creased
cinched into pleats by a skinny belt,
leaving a long curved tongue
stuck stubbornly out front.

It could have been a wedding, a funeral
a family feast.
This is all I remember
of her.
Not the colour of her eyes, her voice
the kindnesses
and loving gestures.
Just a single hug, the rebellious hair,
the desire to be anywhere else
but there.

Now, the hair is almost gone
and paisley is back in fashion.
And I still dress myself
in T-shirts and sweats,
faded and frayed
from too much washing.

And if it’s memory that makes us
then I’m a few sizes too small —
unfinished, pre-shrunk,
with dangling buttons
unravelled threads.
Pull just one
I could easily come undone.