by Jari Thymian
Breasts into cups. Lower chakras into underwear.
Arms through holes. Legs slide into tubes of pants.
Toes and feet slip inside shoes. We think it all flows with us –
cotton, silk, rayon, leather, hemp. Snap, button, hook –
to hold us in place. Garment restrictions on the soul.
A part inside closes. Like children we think our armor
hides us. By design, if we distract eyes with seams
and detail, we hope retinas will not see how naked
we are underneath. Inside clothes, our darkness, held
like a prisoner on work release, despises the need to fit
into a specific form. This thing so sizeless and blinding
we dare not let it wander down the street
Jari Thymian’s poetry has appeared in Ekphrasis, Margie Review,Flutter, Broadsided Press, Pedestal Magazine, Alehouse, The Orange Room Review, and Melusine. Poems are forthcoming in Memoir (and), Spillway, Foundling Review, Ken*Again, and Kent State’s (Ohio) 3-year traveling art/poetry exhibit called Peace Speaks. She has a chapbook, The Meaning of Barns (Finishing Line Press). She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in a suburb of Denver. jarithymian.com.