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
Copyright © Thomas Harrison | Year Posted 2019
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