The Backless Gift

The air at home is thick with the smell

of frying onions and old carpet,

but my lungs still taste like bleach.

I haven't taken the coat off yet.

In the mirror, the collar of my work jacket

is pulled back just enough to show

that blue and white geometry—

a cheap paper kite of a shirt.

It’s damp against my shoulder blades,

clinging to the sweat of the walk home

like a second skin I forgot to peel.

It’s open at the back,

letting the draft in

where I used to be whole.