Fake Wool

The bruised-blue sky, the blown-breath willow, and goldenrod fallen leaves woven with acrylic yarn into your best, most beautiful sweater: the fake wool woodscape felt soft on your skin, no stinging or deep itch, a scene wrapped around your teenage rib cage—all angle tones and autumn. You would wear nothing underneath, felt only the inside-out warp and knots. In honors English, you studied three witches who conjured a crowned child, foretold in reflections, riddles, brewed hubris. Back then, nothing was true.

                                                  Back then, no one was ever true.
Your hot mess brewed in a red-hued bowl. In honors English, you learned three weird sisters conjured three ghost children. You sensed you couldn’t wear nothing underneath for long—felt the warped not wrap around your teenage rib cage, that angular thing, all muted tones: that fake wool woodscape, though, was so soft on your skin: no deep stinging itch, jewel-tone yarn skeins woven into the best, most beautiful ground cover. No falling: just goldenrod, blown willowy breath, and the cold bruised sky.