My skin touched the skin of a martyr
many years before. I was trying to protect him
from being attacked. His glasses were broken
into his face and his blood was on my sleeve.
That jacket still hangs
in the back of my wardrobe. I had forgotten it was there
but when I heard went and checked.
It’s old and worn out and tight on the shoulders
and speckled with dried-in black blood.
I washed the blood from my hands
when I went home that evening
and forgot all about it for twenty five years.