/THE LAST SKIN LEATHER JACKET

THE LAST SKIN

Forged where light goes to die.

A carapace of blackened leather that has already forgotten the body it once protected. The balaclava erases the face-only the eyes remain, two cuts in the dark.

Shoulder plates sit like relics from a liturgy that was never meant to be finished. Metal crosses hold the front closed the way a wound is held closed. Skulls push through the leather on the back.

It is not worn.

It is inhabited. Four kilograms (almost nine pounds) settle on the shoulders like someone else’s memory-a weight that cannot be taken off with the jacket.

Around it the ordinary becomes unstable. Streets lengthen. Mirrors refuse the face. This is not protection. It is the shape a person takes when they decide they no longer need to be seen.

For those who move through the city as if “after” has already arrived.

For those who prefer the weight of silence to the noise of being recognized.