Whenever someone asks Where do you get your fashion inspiration from? without hesitating, I say, My momma.
And, boy, you best believe it. See, my momma knows fabrics. She knows a pattern when she sees one. She travels up and down a rack, the hangers click click a-clicking. She knows when this don’t go with that. She knows a good deal when she sees one. She knows what goes.
See, it’s like this: We’re at JCPenney, looking for my first homecoming dress. Nothing’s quite right at fourteen; my hair’s too frizzy, and stringy, and my god is that a pimple on my nose? But in between me trying on a seafoam dress and a frilly thing that itches, my momma tries on a pair of navy blue pants. Dang, she says, turning, I look good. Now, everyone says I look like my momma. And when she dances in the mirror, wiggling her butt to a pop song, a little glow lights in my chest. A tiny firefly who knows how to dance. I hold up the next dress, swaying to the music. I look good, I think.
See, you better believe my momma looks good. She’s cute-girl short with curly hair and a mouth that laughs. She’s got pretty hands and nice legs and when she looks at you, that’s what matters. She wears sailor stripes, bright shoes, a silky scarf. She’s got wide-pocket pants, heeled boots, pointy church-shoes. She likes long dresses, silver hoops, navy blue, and perfume that smells like nighttime flowers.
I’ve been away from home for years now, my own closet and shoes and way of walking through the thrift store, hangers clicking softly. When I’m back at my apartment, I catch a glimpse in the green mirror over the couch and think, I look good. I FaceTime my momma to show her what I got today. When I pan the camera to where I have the shirt laid out, she laughs and laughs. What? I ask. Hold on, let me show you, she says. She walks to her closet and pulls out the same shirt, a blue-striped button-up.
Trust us to buy the same thing three states away. It’s like her body is my body, looking good. Like I’ve always known I come from somewhere beautiful. Like we’re both fireflies, lit up, dancing to the same song.
Emma McCoy has two poetry books: This Voice Has an Echo (2024) and In Case I Live Forever (2022). She’s been published in places like Vast Chasm Magazine, Stirring Literary, and Across the Margin. She’s the poetry editor of Vessels of Light and reads for Chestnut Review and Whale Road Review. Catch her on Substack: poetrybyemma.substack.com
Header photography and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson
Discover more from Vast
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Vast 