Garments That Memorize

The shirt from 2012 still fits—if fit

means I can pull it over my head somehow,

though the seams are screaming at me now,

the fabric strained to its absolute limit.

I've moved with it three times, kept it near

like it might matter, like I'd go back to

being who wore it loose. But I grew

into someone this shirt can't hold. I fear

the mirror when I wear it, see a stranger,

my shoulders too wide, my body changed.

But I can't throw it out. I've rearranged

my closet just to give it space and danger.

The person who wore it loose still screams

inside me, still demands to take up room.

I hang it back up in the closet's gloom,

and let it memorize my in-between dreams.