These are the new slacks that Mama sewed,
butterscotch corduroy with three black buttons at the waist,
because four would be bad luck.
This is the sweater that Auntie Phoenix sent from Baltimore,
tangerine and fluffy,
scratching my wrists and neck.
These are my tights
and my secondhand boots with a run-down right heel
that crunch in the snow, leaving waffle footprints.
This is the wool coat that Mama wore
the winter she married Papa in Japan.
And mittens with snowflakes on each palm
and a long scarf to shield me from the tiny wind daggers.
When I breathe, my cheeks and chin feel moist
and cold at the same time.
These are my frozen eyelashes
and my Popsicle nose.
You have to wear a lot of clothes
just to go to school in Vermont.