The Coat

he ran ahead

to clear the road

pulled the fallen forest to the side

branches tangled in his unkempt hair

he returned with a weathered suit

which was quickly sewn

and made anew

I ran my fingertips along the fabric's scars

to count each needle’s thread

that we had wasted

his jacket was slumped atop a woven chair

still bits of sticks in his ravaged hair

the rage inside felt no bounds

he could shed his wounds

without making a sound

but I could not remove myself

from my battered skin

the bruised blood flowing within

I could not carry away a broken tree

to clear the path

purge my misery


I bathed with my wounds

cleansed the flesh with saline

because I knew

soon the stitches would break

and again start to bleed

I cannot shed my coat

without shedding me.