Aimee Wai

WEFT & WARP

I pull loose cotton from stalks. I feed it through a loom and weave indescribable mishaps. Sweaters with three arms and pants with no foot-holes.

They’re dyed strange colors.

You wear them anyways; you say you like them. I have a lump in my throat. You must have three arms and inconsolably cold feet.

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