At half past two I cross the hall
to fetch the book I left downstairs.
The moon has laid a silver shawl
across the floor, the walls, the chairs.
And there you are.
No—
just my coat
thrown on the chair the night before,
one empty sleeve beside the oak,
one shoulder leaning toward the door.
The pipes knock twice behind the wall.
Outside, the maple shakes its hood.
A branch lets go. I hear it fall.
I stay there longer than I should.
The coat is mine. I know its weight.
I know the tear beneath one arm.
I know each button, cuff, and seam—
yet cloth, for one breath, can feel warm.
Still, something in the way it leans
against the chair's familiar frame—
the folded cloth, the empty sleeve—
has nearly said a name.
Nearly is a troublesome word.
A letter nearly sent may wait
inside a drawer, unseen, unread—
but still, before it meets its fate,
it knows the truth that wasn't said.
Nearly home.
Nearly forgotten.
Nearly enough.
I lift the coat to put away,
inside the closet by the stairs.
One hand finds mine inside the sleeve.
I turn once slowly through the air.
For one small moment, I believe—
Its buttons touch my wrist.
One empty arm rests against my own,
and the smell of cologne
nearly
brushes my cheek.
In the window,
the glass reflects one of us.
Wait—
for one turn,
perhaps two.
So I turn once more.
Then I return it where it lay,
one cuff still folded toward the floor.
The shadows gather where they may
and leave me standing as before.
The window holds its square of sky.
The pipes have all gone quiet now.
The moon still silvers every wall.
I reach for the railing.
Behind me,
the coat lets go.
I hear it fall.
—Iris Lennox
Iris Lennox 