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# Triangles
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/triangles/
- Published: 2026-05-27T13:42:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-05-27T13:42:00.000Z
- Description: “Triangles,” written May 27, poem 147 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "strings and young things," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Faux Lament, Generational, Humor, Loosely Hinged, Poems, Unserious, Bikinis, Code, Daughters, Fluorescent Lights, Kids, Kneecaps, Lycra, Male gaze, Mall, May, parenting, Spring, XXS, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Tiny triangles on stitched Lycra strings   
tremble in the breeze   
of a nearby rack   
whooshing with moving hangers.  
  
I lean in closer to confirm if these   
are meant for human girls —  
or for their American Girl Dolls.  
  
  
The teeny bits of fabric dance on the rod  
in lime green seersucker  
in gold lamé  
on seashell-adorned straps  
that meet swirls of cerulean, Kelly green   
and optic white à la Pucci  
(Not that this set would get that reference).  
  
The racks burst with feigned abundance,   
 ‘til I lean in to decipher the tags:  
XXS  
XXS  
XS  
XXS  
XS  
XS  
XS  
XXS  
  
I sift through the available stock   
with increasing urgency:  
XXS  
XS  
XXS  
S  
S  
S  
S  
XXS  
XL.  
  
The sparse sizing   
feels like a code  
I can’t crack to a joke that  
I’m increasingly suspecting is on me.  
  
None of these suits will suit her.  
Maybe thirteen year-olds can go topless?  
Ugh.  
  
I turn to the coordinates section,  
Boldly proclaiming their identity as:   
“Bottoms!”  
With the exclamation and all.  
  
Here I find high V bikinis that threaten   
to turn into a thong upon pulling up, up, up  
over bike versus asphalt accident-scarred kneecaps.  
*Nope*, I think.  
  
I turn my attention to a spaghetti mess   
of tangled string loin cloths.  
Before I can edit myself I exclaim:  
“Your Dad would die *a million deaths*   
if he saw you in this. We can’t cause a heart attack.”  
  
Luckily for all three of us,   
these also come in the inhospitable Xs   
on either end of the wide bell curve   
of women’s straight sizes.  
  
No need to argue;  
even she knows   
there’s none in front of us   
that would not fall off or fight to go on.  
  
It’s her waning moments of being twelve  
And this came so soon.  
I can still feel her roundhouse kicking my spleen.  
  
And now I’m here   
casting a long shadow  
in fluorescent hellscapes  
of a man's making  
helping her find infinitesimal isosceles   
to adorn her not so baby body.  
  
And something inside me trembles  
like the bits of cloth  
on a string  
on a rod  
in the mall  
and I find myself carrying   
the bits of social signalling  
to the cashier  
and charging the lot on my watch  
and putting the miniscule items   
in the massive bag  
that I've just been upsold on   
for a dollar.  
  
This is twelve  
on the cusp of thirteen  
and I'm not sure what's next  
in the geometry of life  
but I do know it involves   
smaller clothing   
and pricier hang tags.