The Jacket

It still hangs there, there on the back of my door. “Wa d’y lev ut thur?” I can hear you say in that Chatterley-esque accent of yours, rippling through me. “It’s so I can smell you” I’d reply if I could: a waft and scent of your neck, hair… whenever I’d leave the room. When I’d enter it. If I just pass by. I’d tell you that, at night, my arms loosen their flesh and peel on the cotton, a needle sews blood afresh into my seams. At night, the zipper puts my chest back together and holds my knocking heart in place…. my ribcage ivory buttons, poached. My beard grows longer to the left, matching the lopsided drawstring I pulled in a prank. At night, the frayed knitting weaves its way into my arm hair. The smattering of chest hair that made you laugh is now indistinguishable from where a sewing machine once clamped shut. At night my fingers become the tips of each sleeve – just out of reach of your hand but forever trying. “It still hangs there” I’d tell you, if I could, “there on the back of our door.” It hangs there, it hangs there still