Alterations

The wool is too heavy for a July morning.

I remember the funeral, the way the rain felt

like someone throwing gravel at the limo glass.

Now, the shoulders are a map of where I’ve expanded.

I reached for the button, a small plastic moon,

and heard the dry, sudden snap of the silk.

One thread giving up the ghost.

I stood in the mirror with my arms pinned back,

waiting for the rest of it to tear.