Wearing It by Natalie DeVaull-Robichaud

My mother gave me the clothes of her sister to wear. But the faded red jumper hung heavy and smelled of someone else’s sweat until that too faded, and when my mother looked on me, there was no getting beyond what she saw. But I didn’t get it as bad as the Turpin children. Since choosing the right prototype for a border wall is as difficult as keeping Syrian refugees out of Sweden, just remember that pulling drowned children from the Mediterranean is the job of the Libyan coastguard. Remember to send a Shami goat bearing the shame away from its paddock into the wilderness beyond until, like remembering, it becomes a lone pinpoint of light in the darkness and is gone.

Natalie DeVaull-Robichaud lives with her husband and son in CT, where she teaches writing.