THE BLACK GLOVES
Elisavietta Ritchie
Long, with silver snaps. Bought
at an Arlington Thrift as if brand new,
they have yet to take the shape of my hands.
Who owned them before? Did she die?
By her own hand, and her angry family hope
to recoup something at least on consignment?
Did she merely resell them because
her hands swelled, or shrank, she moved
to the tropics, gave up black, or was broke?
No matter. Two dollars and by the fragrance
real leather. I've bought them.
Bought into her life.
Until I lose them, lend them,
toss one out as a challenge,
or recycle them back to the Thrift,
I'll wear them through difficult winters,
my hands assuming their shape,
the lines on my palms retracing her fate.
