Bio Note: I feel much gratitude to the Glove in this poem, which inspired one of my earliest poems, which, in turn, was chosen for publication in R.T. Smith’s fine journal, Shenandoah, and, later in Poetry Daily. Further, I will be most grateful to have it appear alongside the work of my good colleagues in Verse-Virtual.
Song of a Glove
These are my dooms: Other and I, rescued from rummage, were nested among her socks and scarves. Downy and dexterous, I held her pen when she wrote in the park. Twice I was lost: once at the Doctor’s, then at the checkout as she fumbled for change. She back-tracked, found me, and held us, Other and me, in prayer position. Now he is lost. Under a wedge of the bank door, he revolves, revolves, and she doesn’t know. Her hand is cold. She doesn’t go to the park. Words dissolve like eggs in her womb. They locked the bank for the night and wrenched him from the door in shreds. When she knows he’s gone, she’ll throw me away, as, in some countries, they throw away widows.
How to Fall Asleep
Consider the whale: If she nods, she drowns. Half of her brain rests. The other counts while her lungs get dense with carbon. When gallons of singing, surrounding green fail her, alert cells say: Surface. Expel this stuff. Take on a ton of air. In a huff, she does, dives, falls half-awake, and the renewed brain takes a turn. Think of your spared expense. Sleep. Salt mingles with forgetful river-water. In damp caverns winds exchange themselves again and again.
©2020 Sarah White
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