A Coat on the Love Seat, Translated In the mornings, I feel the cold on the back of my neck, that bone-deep, ice cold—shutting my eyes tight as if not seeing it translates to not feeling it. American beech trees line either side of the street: bronze leaves, uncombed and wet and soft like a man's short, matted hair after a shower. Yellow pine cones lie on the limp grass like drunken women on chaise lounges after a party at Jay Gatsby's, succumbing, fawning to nature. In the afternoons, I wear my coat inside the office building, mug of cold coffee from the house balanced on my knee: I work, I work. At night, I lie on a bed with you, the beech trees silhouetting our room, twigged branches like fingers, reaching to touch. Here, my coat is on the love seat in the living room, discarded for something more natural. Inside this house: I work, I work. © Heather Cadenhead