a response to Katrina’s “forever is finite: brick and mortar nostalgia"
In dressing rooms, I try on clothes and listen for sounds of mothers.
Encouragement, disapproval, assistance, confusion—
any doting is mine now,
picked-up commands discarded by over-it teenagers.
I look in the mirror and
dream about knocking on a tiny stall door to ask for a tampon—
oh, and what do you think of this summer dress?—
pluck a seed from my tongue and pretend it’s stolen tobacco.
1910, photographs of Flannelette garment fire test
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