My Life is
a Black Knitted Sweater Dress

A day before my father’s funeral
I bought the only piece of clothing I wore
straight from the store. There was no time
to rinse the woollen threads.
Two things on my mind:

Where did the garment come from?
Where is my dad going?

The dress can’t tell me.
Tata can’t tell me.

I imagined clear waters, clean hands, bright eyes,
all bugs with wings of butterflies. How does it feel
to have no body? I said goodbye
and washed the black knitted sweater dress.
It’s drying in the Sun until I wear it again.