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That time when I was 9, or maybe 8,

and my mother overheard me

laughing out loud while reading a book,

she came to dinner fairly humming with maternal vanity

and asked casually if I was enjoying David Copperfield.

When I told her I was reading Pippi Longstocking,

her disappointment, unspoken though it was,

soaked through me like a slug of vinegar. Years later,

when I completed my PhD, she didn’t respond

when I invited her to the party.

So here I am. This is me. I use

my very modest artistic talent and middling

design ability to make my own clothes. I aced

my SATs but would never have qualified

for art school. Whatever. I find this art making

deeply satisfying. Engrossing. I enjoy spending my days

engaged in a process that requires me to slow down, to do

something I’m kind of clumsy at. I’m very fond

of my muddy odd color choices

and my non-style garment shapes. I love

my studio, the light coming through the windows,

the touch of fabrics, the color samples I’ve made.

When you’re suicidal they ask

what’s something worth living for.

I’m still looking for the good brown,

the right blue. That’s as good a reason as any.

There’s no long-winded moralistic kinky weird

Victorian novel that teaches me how

to mix the color of rotting leaves.