A shock to see it, sleeves creased and sagged to his shape
as if he would return to wear it.
Forgotten in the downstairs cupboard I suppose
When I sorted his stuff for the charity shop.
I took to wearing it out of doors; it smelled of him and the
pockets were deep.
Thrusting fingers into their depths, I probed in corners
picking up flecks of fluff and dust from the past
that clung to my nails for dear life.
It was weeks before I found the inside pocket and the letter
– he wouldn’t think I’d poke in there –
saying “dearest”, “beloved” and
“you are my life”.
No one to care now that what cannot
be borne is fingering these
fragments of a life
torn apart.
On the corner of the page her kisses shrivel
strands of scorched yarn sizzle and
in the flames of the pyre
my rage burns.
Lost to us both now
the letter
the coat
him.
– Jane Dobson
Published in The Times, February 2010