I found the shirt at a jumble sale
darker buttons stitched on cotton, grey and pale,
imagined the collar touching his neck like brail
along, reading I would run
a finger on his adam’s apple, undone
leaving bare throat leading to lungs.
Got home and nursed the shirt into the wash,
strung out the sleeves, let the wind kiss the damp cloth.
Later sniffed a fist to check it breathed in flowers, soil and wasps.
Satisfied, cradled it home in secret; in from the line
and dressed it onto wire shoulders and an invisible spine.
I stroked the creases, stood back and tried
with pink cheeks, to forget the lack of chest heaving up, down, on.
I waited for him to come.
