It’s floating on a wire hanger now

from the lowest branch in a corner

of the forest. You unhook it,

thumbs worrying stitches for what

you missed last time in the dark

shifty material lining the interior—

the slit left by a torn-away button,

burns, the nervous designs of moths

flickering in and out of the collar.

Your dreams make all kinds of no sense—

locked cabinets with cobwebs across

the wobbly glass knobs. Rachael

adjusts on her nothing shoulders

the winter coat she wore,

the stitching so gone in the pockets

her hands believe they’re bottomless.

She could keep a rat in one, the teeth,

the pink loop of tail, brush against us

*this *close, and who would even know

what she carried there?