One Glove
Wendy Becker

You are always losing
your gloves, maybe that’s why
there are so many singles,
who will wear them? one alone
in a drawer. Before we bought your last pair
we roamed Macy’s squeezing all gloves
as if they were loaves of bread or the hands
themselves. The ones we bought
were not the most expensive but
you reminded me when it comes to gloves
and hats its best not to get attached
but attached I got anyway, as if their shape
became you, the fingers curved under
even when empty, you lost one
too soon, how unnatural
your hand felt the way you folded
it into my palm reminding me
of places I’d touched then passed
with no intention of staying.
Why save the singles --
some worn with holes in the fingers
like sock heels walked over
the same wood for too long. At home in the drawer
all gloves are stuffed, some soft, some stiff,
some your gloves, some mine, mingled
no hope of ever curling around snow. I’ve decided
I won’t leave you, I will never
because I don’t want you lost
like the glove you no longer own.
When you look at me with your wool eyes
unraveling and hold up one hand
without a glove, I wonder why
you haven’t lost me yet,
on the street or in a pocket
of an old coat. 

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