By Valerie Tseng
Born in the middle of a cold January night,
I have always needed the comfort
And warmth, and presence of my clothing
So rarely am I seen on these brisk autumn days
Without my sherpa denim jacket,
Its tall row of buttons tucks my skin away
And in the heat of summertime
Long sleeves under my thin straps
A whisper of a layer to hide my skin
When it nears my birth season year after year
I love the bitter cold as it fills the air
But it never runs past my high necklines,
For this skin of mine loves the feeling
Of something
Soft
Or patterned
Or knit
Or denim
Between it and the rest of the world
It reminds me
Of the warmth of a baby’s blanket
On her first night of life in the dead of January.
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