I Am Wearing My Mother’s Blouse
by Andrea Potos

Some call the word blouse old-fashioned, gone
the way of slacks or trousers,
but I remember her closet full of blouses
and the way she would say blouse
like a raised window with June air
wafting in, and just on the other side–
spires of lavender phlox, with a hint
of roses to come, around the corner of a house,
say, along the flagstones, under a trellis
like the one in my grandmother’s backyard
where my mother played as a girl, and then I did,
underneath the shade of the dusky grapevines,
the word has a home there, somewhere close
to summer and to joy.



   


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