The Green One

The heat cut out around two in the morning.

I went to the closet for something warm.

It was on the back shelf behind the things

I'd put there to stop looking at—the norm

for that whole shelf. Out of sight.

Still folded. Green—or what green becomes

when you fold something in the dark for years.

The chevron pattern faint. My thumbs

went straight to the corner where the binding

had come loose to threads.

I took it out to the couch.

One edge was felted where the fold had pressed

too long—a slight ridge. I pulled it over me.

The cold came up through the floorboards. I guessed

at the time. Past three.

I sat there until the heat clicked back on.

The blanket smelled like closet and before—

before the move, the year I don't say much.

I'm not sure what I was waiting for.