“Levi’s wants you to rethink your denim shopping”*

I comply. Think about the Discovery Shop,
where I scratch through metal hangers
holding the skins of some other woman’s
life. What buds and stems grew through
these moments of denim, discarded them
like snakeskin? These empty tubes in front
of me. Telomeres for me to try on, see
how my life measures up. My teen selects
jeans easily. In and out, ten minutes flat.
Has an eye for potential. Can ride these
lines of stiff cotton-blends on horses
through a field. While my aging bod knows
too much about stretch and fit, comfort.
It’s true. I’m blue, thinking about denim.
Shopping. How these are Not Your
Daughter’s Jeans. I’m trying to Guess
my size in these, wondering if anyone
died in these? No one should have to
donate their mother’s jeans, but we did it.
Cleaned out her closet. Not a second-hand
purchase in it. She would cringe to see me
shop like this. My teen’s ready to go. But,
I’m lingering here, weeks later, rethinking.