leather jacket

i open the closet to find a cow standing there.
she has eyes like stop lights. chews on the red leather jacket
we got from the family thrift on mcauthur road. 
she doesn't like excuses. she asks,
"have you ever been a drum?"
i often think about the lives my clothes lived
before i've worn them. there are the three sweaters
from a dead man. the dress worn by
a girl now on fire. the teeth from a squirrel 
who is now nothing but ribs. i love 
to be my own little frankenstein. the resurrection
of everyone's gender trouble.  
i take a walk with the cow. she talks about 
wanting so badly to wear a suit & look dapper.
i tell her we all want to wear a suit 
but none of them fit. she remembers 
the cow the leather was made from. the days
he would spend eating dandelions 
& learning their stories of the times
of glass & green. the leather jacket is your favorite.
i try to think of how when i get home
i will explain to you, my lover, where
your jacket went & how it is not my fault.
sometimes you wear my clothes & 
at first i felt a twinge of greed. "that is mine."
now, i think of it like sharing skin. like stepping
into each other's breath. once
i saw someone walking around in a dress
i used to own. i had dropped it off
at the goodwill just one day before.
i thought "that is me." i'm not sure
if i was talking about the dress or the girl.
the cow disappears back into the closet.
there's no more jacket. just a zipper. 
i hang the zipper on its coat hanger. 
the closet smells like damp grass. 
i take off all my clothes. including my skin.
become a cow in the shower. 
then, feeling daring or lonely, i put on one of 
your dresses only for a minute before changing.