CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN; THE WOMAN, HER CLOTHES
Word Count: 238
I grow my clothes like layers of skin, of linen and cotton and the softest fine wool. I can weave what I want with the fiber that spools through my pores.
This morning brings a menu of colors and mood. Sunshine is happy and yellow and silk. A breeze extrudes cobwebby ruffles that grace my neck like a wreath.
The sun asks if I’m ready and I close my eyes and say yes. It turns my eyelids into a dance floor for an aquamarine floater that looks like a synapse going off in a nervous connection. I can make it go up and down or side to side and just now, danced it around in a circle. Left to itself, it bounces and blinks. It rarely comes out to play unless called, lost in the nethermost focus.
My heart beats a steady flub-dub, flub-dub, though I often pace it to hip-shake a salsa. Sometimes I beat African drums and when I’m in pale blue chiffon, I’ll hear a waltz in my heart.
Cool cotton in August, striped seersucker puckered like nipples. Warm cashmere wool in the cold winter soft as my hair. My lips are still rubied by a pomegranate I ate as a child.
I am what I’ve taken in by ears, tongue, and mind. I am textures and taste and song. In the whirlwind of self they are soup that I wear every day.
I love the combination of photo (?) and story and yesterday’s orange-peel skin–I like surfaces.
Thanks, George. Yes, like last years’s, they’re all original photos that have had to endure my Photoshop or GIMP learning enthusiasm.
Beautiful. A depth of threads too! 😉 Thank you for the link.
Thanks–when I wrote that up/down thing it was from actually bouncing a floater around in my eye just as described, then I immediately remembered your piece and realized that’s where it came from!
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lovely! especially am crazy about-
Cool cotton in August, striped seersucker puckered like nipples. Warm cashmere wool in the cold winter soft as my hair. My lips are still rubied by a pomegranate I ate as a child.
you took my idea to an entirely new level! I was in part inspired by Elizabeth Brewster’s “Where I Come From”, a poem I must’ve read when I was about 14, and randomly thought about a few days ago.
It’s amazing what sticks in our head and sleeps for years before it creeps out and into one of our pieces of work. That’s why I feel that all fiction and poetry is non-fiction in base and is infused with imagination that makes it unreal!