Enough

How we hated Lamonts,

my aunt and I,

as her sister—my mother,

her mother—my grandma,

shopped and tried

on somebody else’s

soon-to-be clothes.

It was the smell,

we said,

or the way

it made us feel

confined

or defined

by dress or bra or shoe.

And leave to breathe,

fairly sprinting to her car,

in search of that bright patch of sky

that agreed

we were already enough.

© 2019 Jennifer Wagner

Poetry Pantry #495