José Angel Araguz
GLOVES
I made up a story for myself once,
That each glove I lost
Was sent to my father in prisonThat’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 outMy open palm closing
And disappearing
In his fist.
–from Rattle #28, Winter 2007
December 23rd, 2008 at 12:32 pm
I can feel the ache in these lines, so clear is the picture of the boy with one glove — maybe a whole backpack pocket lined with single mitts – holding tightly to his story because it’s the only thing he’s been given and he had to give it to himself. The last stanza conveys his longing for that intangible hug with painful eloquence!