“Gloss of Observation,” Sara Fitzpatrick Comito

by MP

The overcoats, woolen,
the poly sheen inside.
To be sure, stolen trinkets
litter hidden pockets:

The time I took a quarter
from the March of Dimes
cardboard with all the
coin shaped pockets
at the bank

like sconces in a Roman bath

My horror at myself
in the bathroom interrogation
at the pediatrician’s later.
All that time in the car,
the tacit fury,
latent as milk.

And how I managed to pass
the thing, once shiny,
now burning with accusation
from arm to arm
hidden in my slenderness.

Had I been a fat girl
I would have been condemned
as a thief and my towering mother
validated.

For that I suffer most,
the scourging of color
at her mistake.

And who knows what
happens in limousines?

How a thing can be transformed
under glass.

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