When pleated, I fold into the thinnest
slits. Garment without zippers, backed with basting,
smooth thread. To my hems tatted lace covers knit-
stitched skin. Plastic buttons—taut to my cloth—grasp
at cotton like claws.
I imagine myself
the patterned product of a great seamstress: full-
length gown born of deft hands, I could adorn like
camisoles slim, white bodies.
Instead, my size
has been mis-measured and I am of no use.
Un-proportioned fit, I hang in the closet
bulky and bulged as an overcoat.