February 07, 2008
I'd make a good boy scout:
tampons litter the corners
of every backpack and purse
waiting to unfurl, and
there are gloves in the pockets
of every coat I own.
The gloves my father wears
were his inheritance.
Cracked and creased,
they're always already old.
Once I lost a fur-lined glove,
sleek as a well-fed cat.
It reappeared in the spring,
sodden and sheepish,
when the ice shelf of our driveway
melted into a muddy sea.
I dried it in the dining room
and it was wearable again, though
battered, as if my left hand
had endured my worst nightmares
but my right hand
didn't know the clench of fear.
The current prompt at readwritepoem
up your poetry. I had all sorts of ideas for this one, though
once I started working on the poem, it was the glove idea that
grabbed me and ran. This poem's been through several iterations
this week, but I think I'm pleased with it. There's nothing Judaic in it, for a change, unless you count the very subtle hint of psalm 137 in the last two couplets, but I hope y'all enjoy it anyway. Anyway,
you can read others' responses to the prompt
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