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      January 2, 2021GlovesJose Angel Araguz

      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

      from #28 - Winter 2007

      Jose Angel Araguz

      “I grew up basically not knowing much about my father; he was in prison early on in my life and died when I was six. I find this sense of absence often projected in my work in terms of having to fill in the blanks. In regards to the poem, ‘Gloves,’ I was working in Manhattan at the time, where, during winter, the subway platforms and cars are often littered with forgotten or dropped gloves. The thought that somewhere someone walked around with a bare hand is what got me going.”

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