What We Did with the Miner's Jacket, by Molly Thapviwat
Winner of the International Poetry Prize 2025
What We Did with the Miner's Jacket
It hung by the door for years
after he stopped wearing it—
a denim ghost stitched with coal dust
and the smell of Embassy No. 6.
Mum said not to touch it.
Said it was history.
Said it still had his shape in the sleeves.
He’d worn it the day they walked out,
arms linked like scaffolding.
I was six. I held his thermos
like it might tell me something
about loss or tea.
Thatcher was on the telly that night,
smiling like she’d just won a raffle.
He didn’t speak,
just turned the volume down
so he could hear himself breathe.
Years later, we used the jacket
to carry wood from the shed.
It tore at the seam
where his elbow used to bend.
Mum cried over kindling
like it was breaking news.
I said nothing—just packed the splinters
into the stove,
lit the fire,
and watched something old
give us heat, one last time.
by Molly Thapviwat