The Letters Do Not Hold

I leave room around the vest. A wall, a hook, the pale weather of the studio. There is no body inside it, and I do not ask the empty garment to stand for everyone who has worn one.

Across the chest: PRESS.

White is rarely simple in a painting. Here it borrows blue from the nylon and gray from the room. Along a fold, one letter loses a little of its shape. When the cloth settles, the word returns.

Someone has to put this on. Someone has to find the openings for their arms, adjust the straps, carry the weight through an ordinary doorway. Before the photograph, before the report, there is that small preparation.

The letters identify a person doing work. They make a claim that should be honored. They are not a spell, and the failure to honor them belongs to the world around the wearer—not to the wearer for having trusted them.

I paint the seam twice. The first time it looks too certain, like a border on a map. The second time I let it waver where the fabric pulls.

A draft reaches the hem. Light travels over the chest without fastening anything in place. On the wall, a shadow moves farther than the garment does.

I had thought the empty space would make this easier to look at. Instead, I keep noticing where the shoulders would be.

The vest hangs there. I leave the word legible.