chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: gloves

found poem: simulating


kid glovesThe heater clicked once and roared to life. She had propped open the furnace room door to let the trapped heat radiate out into the chilly room. It wasn’t too bad. Her hands were warm, for the moment. She still carried the stored heat of the night’s sleep. It would wear off soon enough though, the room’s 63 degrees feeling like too few.

But before she’d notch up the thermostat, a degree at a time, she’d try other measures, not understanding her stubbornness. Wooly socks. Slippers. Two sweaters. She’d tried those gloves, rough gray wool, no fingertips, but they hadn’t worked. Too bulky for the keyboard. She needed some kid gloves, or silk maybe, without fingertips. She thought of taking the scissors to the kid gloves that had belonged to her mother. But the idea of lopping off the gloves’ soft fingertips was as painful as if there were already fingers in them. This would have to be a new pair of gloves, one without sentiment, bought for the purpose.

Those and the coat she had imagined, fashioned from an electric blanket. She could see it so clearly: the dark brown wool, the wires like veins, the satin trim at the collar, the extension cord trailing away behind her.

She thought about draping the electric blanket over her chair, sitting on it, wrapping it up over her shoulders and across her lap. She thought about Hawaii. She thought about crawling under her flannel-covered down comforter and waiting for spring to arrive.

Then, feeling a gloss of perspiration gathering on her upper lip, she realized she could write herself warm.

Elsie’s gloves…

Elsie's glovesElsie was born in 1886 into a family of top hats and tails, gowns and gloves, fans and frills. She wore gorgeous clothes, married twice, traveled widely and lived long enough to be the only grandparent I remember.

From a drawer, I lift out her gloves, softest kid, ivory and fawn and black and near-black chocolate, beaded or embroidered or ruched or seamed or plain.

I pull on a long glove, an opera glove known as a mousquetaire. It clings, black and weightless, above my elbow, the fingers slender and snug. At the wrist, a narrow three-button opening offers a seductive glimpse of pale skin, pulse.

I turn my hand this way and that, then shake myself back to jeans and sweats, pull off the glove, which is too small anyway, and fold it away, a bit of Elsie’s softness still palpable in the fading scrapbook of my memory.

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