It Was the Green Plaid Jacket

It was the green plaid jacket.
I remember following that jacket home from school.
Wearing it with such pride you said,
“Its from my grampa.”
Grin baring your tiny teeth, your pocket-sized smile

In the sixth grade blood covered the green sleeves
in an ugly mud color combination
Johnny was always so cruel to you.
I remember inviting you in, I’ll clean
the pain out of your coat, out of your soul.
We kissed for the first time.

High school came, that jacket remained in your locker
Guts ripped to shreds, barely mended with
patches, made of those denims you used
to love. Oh, that smile, when I presented the
green plaid treasure back to you.
Sad looking, but free of holes. Was it love in
your eyes?

After the first time we made love, I wrapped up in
it to go outside. I wore nothing underneath, you
liked that. I remember your fingertips against
my wrists, tracing patterns of sensual impulses.
Your green plaid jacket always ended up
where it started before, back on the hardwood.

“Is this him, maam?”
In the fourth grade you started wearing it.
Today, its gently strewn under you, one arm
tucked into the woolen holster of a sleeve. There’s blood again,
this time in gathers in pools. I wish you didn’t
have open eyes. The hollow iris is as pale as
the coat, mossy green and faded with time.