In His Hand-Me-Down Memory

I no longer help mother sow up
holes in his Home-Depot carpenter-associated
sweatshirt, sweat stained pits-incorporated by flannel .
I no longer shed salt, the spice of life, emerging by tear
ducts, water no longer dampens holes into
tissues. The box of my Hello Kitty kleenex
cries over its remnants. Our adolescent moans
no longer intertwine.

I no longer paint by numbers my adolescence,
paper-doll cutouts no longer relieve my
misfortune.

I no longer believe his plywood-infused
pledge. The fabric of his sweatshirt has
worn out, as blisters take hold of my childlike
fingers. Walking around, I hold fast to one percent
cotton, ninety-nine percent absence. Indispensable
paternal warmth does not come in any other
colors or sizes.

I no longer fight any fight. This game of rock,
paper, scissors must end,
bitterly. Forget any blankets, security has relapsed for
the final, inborn time. Mr. Koala Bear has been
resolutely, handed down.

It’s down to whom
in loss, will love him
more.

Hand-me-downs are never quite like the finest couture.