Scrim

The attic air is thick with the smell of damp wool

and the slow, quiet rot of cardboard boxes.

I pushed the heavy winter coats aside

to find the dress form in the corner.

The muslin is wrapped around the wire frame,

thin as a used-up coffee filter.

When I touched the shoulder, the loose weave

snagged on a dry patch of skin on my thumb.

It held on for a second, a tiny physical pull,

before the threads gave way and let me go.