Miles away from
anyone that knows our every crease and stitch,
we found love in this suburban Goodwill.
You caught my eye in the women’s blouses section and I rushed dizzy to you,
made sure I wasn’t imagining things
between forced frills and neutral tones.
But yes, you had it—the sheer but firm quality,
golden embroidery falling past the waist,
faint initials of the previous owner right below the collar in permanent marker.

I scooped you up because do you know what atrocities happen here?
You could’ve been bought by a white reseller,
jaggedly cropped and upsold at 3 times the price,
tagged exotic, oriental.
I couldn’t let you fall to this fate.

The gendered tag stings an overt truth:
we’re never going to make sense to them, will we?
I’ve only seen others like you on my dad, brother, uncles, grandfathers;
all the men in my life marked by you,
and yet, in this thrift store,
they see me and say girl,
see you and say woman,
see us and say them.
In their minds our inherent softness is the domain of the feminine.

At checkout my heart fireworks,
chattering on the car ride home.
“You are so lucky,” Mom smiles.
At home, flames cool into gentle laundering.
Mom hand-washes, presses piña, hangs outside door.

Night comes—our first date.
My broad shoulders fill out the top like water filling a long-dry creek.
I press you over my chest binder and exhale into the boundary breaking.