Raw Edge

The closet smells like cedar and stalling.

I found the bolt she bought

when she was going to be a person

who made her own clothes.

The muslin is thin, the color of oatmeal,

unrolling across the hardwood

like a road that doesn't go anywhere.

It’s raw and cheap and honest.

The loose, airy weave

snags on a hangnail on my thumb.

I pull back and a single thread

gives way,

unraveling a ghost of a sleeve.