The Good-Boy Suit
I was four when my mother
stitched herself, working late
at night, my father gone.
She put her hand into the light
of the Singer and pressed
the treadle until the needle
sang through her thumb.
I stood back from the sleeves
and pantcuffs she sewed
afterward with her bandaged
hand, pins shining in her shut,
angry mouth, gone away herself.
She would not stitch me,
I thought. But I was a bad boy,
and why did my mother say over
and over she would sew me
a new suit if I was good?
I was afraid to be good,
I was afraid not to be good.
My mother switched me.
My mother switched and stitched.
Turn around, she said, pushing pins
with her bandage into the patterns
on my arms and chest, Stand still,
making a tickle when she measured
my inseam. I was the bad boy
who couldn't, who forgot
to flush, who was afraid
to clean out from under the bed
or watch my mother lean forward
putting her hand into the Singer's
light that was like fire
in her eyes and hair.
The good boy suit just let her
stick pins in it and cut it
and push it into the fire again
and again with her shut face
to stitch it, only the two of them
together in the dark all night long.
So when I came downstairs
to find them, my mother
held up the good boy suit
that had my arms and chest
and legs. It's perfect, she said,
smiling at it, and her hand, with no
bandage now, was perfect too.
I was the one who wasn't.
I couldn't answer when my mother
asked me why I did not like
or want the good boy suit,
or why, even at a time like this,
I had to be such a bad boy.
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