The Fit

The wool is scratchy and smells like cedar chips

and the peppermint my father used to keep

in the pockets to hide his breath.

I put it on because I was told to look sharp,

but the shoulders are too wide,

making me look like a boy playing at being a man.

I pull the sleeves down over my knuckles

to hide the way my fingernails are bitten back.

The lining has come unstitched at the armpit,

a jagged tooth of polyester

that scrapes against my ribs whenever I breathe.

I stand the way he stood—

stiff-backed, expecting a blow that never lands,

wearing his shape until my own spine

forgets how to bend.