Justin Vicari
THE ANGORA SWEATER
For her fourteenth birthday,
my parents gave it to her.
Feathery, ash charcoal,
five pearl buttons.
I wanted to hold it up to my body,
where her rosebuds would go,
while mine would go nowhere.
My childhood, marked
by my father’s rage whenever
I tried to kiss his stubbled cheek.
I can feel it I can feel it how good it feels
He always let her have the hidden nickel from his palm,
no matter which fist her small fingers tapped,
right or left hand?
Then came puberty
when my rosebuds sprouted
when I softened and swelled
when estrogen surged in me
and my genitals did not work
Neither boy nor girl. If I
had gotten the angora sweater,
I might have learned to honor
my softness.
But I was not meant to be clean,
and there is not one reason on earth why I at
that age would have been given
angora anything.