The Buttonhole

The linen shirt doesn't fit anymore.

The seams have pulled.

The left side won't close.

I tried buttoning it and felt the fabric resist,

felt my body say no

in a language I didn't ask to speak.

I hung it back in the drawer.

The buttonhole is stretched pale,

lighter than the rest,

worn from something I can't remember—

maybe I wore it a hundred times,

maybe once,

maybe not at all.

Maybe the damage is just

from being touched,

from being handled,

from existing

in a body that changed

without asking permission.

I don't wear it.

I don't donate it.

It sits in the drawer

like a small failure,

like proof

that things don't stay

the way you leave them,

that bodies don't stay

the way you remember them.

The fabric has memory.

My body has memory.

Neither of them match anymore.

I keep it anyway.