ALL THE GLOVES IN THE APARTMENT
LYN LIFSHIN
Coiled in drawers,
a few pinned into
a mate, most
abandoned or
stuffed into
the dark. Silks,
cotton, leather.
73 pair of white
you can see have
been around.
Suede like skin,
discarded or
rlpped away.
The gloves take
the shape of
where fingers
were crushed
or reached, the
scents: Joy
perfume, Jolie
Madame, moth
balls on wool
in rain. No
light's touched
much of what
folds in on
itself. Lace
and button
imprints like
fossils, wait
like believers
for the mesiah,
a second coming,
for air that
will rise them
up, fill them
