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?