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Black Glove

A poem

There she was we said
flat on her back on the sidewalk
outside Burdick’s like a lost crow
in the snow, splayed
                                    open as a question
mark, the time,
                                    mark the time
you said, like it was dead
and picked it up

Who would have missed this bird
on their fist or their dainty wrist
it seemed she could have been anyone’s
but no one claimed her on the street
where fingers extended begged for change
to invest them with humanity again
a simple hand inside a hand

but you took the entire night on
with a warm stranger. And it fit you.

                        —In Memoriam, C. D. Wright