dress up

did you notice tonight 
how all the trees are made of your 
great-grandmother's yellow sweater?
you step outside to go harvesting because
you remember losing that
sweater at the museum 
when you were shorter than the
kitchen counter. 
you dreamed about it for
weeks after your mother told
you it was one of the last things
she had left from her grandmother--
you remembered how it felt around you
& wondered if she knew you were 
wearing it.
you don't know your grandmother's
name or what her face looks like.
sometimes you wander out
into the forest in the back yard--
the one that spills down from
the mountain.
the trees are made from all
your dead relatives clothing
& the bushes are ripe with 
costume jewelry--
broaches & clip-on earrings &
necklaces of fake pearls strung as
plump as blueberries.
they're engorged from
weeks of eating moonlight.
you walk until you can't see
the porch light anymore & 
sleeves dangling from each branch 
sway in the tentative july breeze--
as you walk the clothing takes
you into the skeletons of
different people--
your grandfather's blue jeans
sag around your waist until
a leather belt pulls them up with
a whoosh from the belt wrapping tight
& your back bends like
a comma-- 
take a breath & 
swallow your feet into your
other grandmother's pointy
colorful shoes-- 
the glossy ones 
with the squares of red & blue
& pink & lime green--
around the bend hangs
the grove of your father's 
canvas shoes. 
in side it dwells each pair he
laid to rest-- 
gnarled laces
dripping between brambles
of misplaced zippers-- 
they knot
you up like spider webs.
you try them on one at a time &
eventually you find a pair that
fits you-- they're black (of course)
& the souls are so worn down that
you can feel each stone
beneath your feet.
the farther you walk the more
layers of clothing you gather--
a shimmery blue dress with frills sewed
by your grandmother-- a rain bonnet
from aunt joan-- a turtle-neck sweater
from cousin donna & 
your mother's jean overalls with the
pocket in the front--
heavy & hot with clothing you
kneel by the moon--lay down
to sleep in the blankets of clothing
& jewelry the trees have adorned you
in-- they sing about how beautiful &
handsome you look to be able to pull
off so many different fashions--
ears bitten full of clip-on earrings  &
neck embroidered with reigns of 
fake jewels you
close your eyes & wake up empty
in the back yard where we have
always only had two trees--
neither of which make of sleeves--
your eye lobes still throb 
from the clip-ons.