Hunker Down

I sewed a shirt for
your shoulders, with epaulets
to soften the blade; green blue to
match the tint of the veins on your hands.

100% cotton, just like your skin, natural
and far away. I fold the material under my
fingers over and over, sleep with it and set
it in my lap as if it were a napping cat and
stroke, the place where your head would be.

The first time you wore it, your mother
visited,saying "See how the buttons all
align. Look at the
yoke. How broad his shoulders are."
Tapered for your slim torso.

I put it on 74 days ago, the touch of the
fabric wrapping where you are not; the epaulets
slipping off my narrow frame; the hem to mid
thigh; Now it is my flesh too.

The threads are my threads, inside and
out. And if you are never coming back,
then the threads will do, slipping
into pores and tinting me with you.

Your mother has been asking me for
the shirt. She has noticed the collar is
just a bit off. I button it to my chin
and hunker down.