Gloves
I made up a story for myself once,
That each glove I lost
Was sent to my father in prison
That’s all it would take for him
To chart my growth without pictures
Without words or visits,
Only colors and design,
Texture; it was ok then
For skin to chafe and ash,
To imagine him
Trying on a glove,
Stretching it out
My open palm closing
And disappearing
In his fist.
Copyright Credit: Poem copyright © 2007 by Jose Angel Araguz. Poem reprinted from Rattle, Vol. 13, no. 2, Winter 2007, by permission of Jose Angel Araguz.
Source: 2007