The Borrowed Shoulders

Found it in the bottom, dark

wood, smelling of moth and a faint mark

of what she was. A tweed, so thick

it held a shape, though I felt sick

to try it on. It hung all wrong,

shoulders too wide, the sleeves too long.

A button missing where the throat

would close, a silent, gaping note.

Against my skin, the scratchy wool,

like wearing someone else's rule.

It carried weight, a hidden score,

that wasn't mine to carry for.

Just her old air, trapped in the weave,

a heavy silence to believe.