red mitten 

hole eaten through the top
where my finger kissed cold.
scratchy wool. black zigzag 
stitched on the back. we lost
the other half of the pair when i was eight.
dug through mounds of snow pants
& slithering scarves in the vestibule 
but never found it. still 
the red mitten made its rounds 
between children each year 
over top of other gloves & used
for alchemy.
my brothers & i took turns
using the red mitten to cradle
un-wordable desires. dead leaf crinkle.
dying tree in the yard. all our limbs 
thick with lichens. thimble & needle.
pin cushion afternoons. yulen echo.
the holiday season is always 
coming or going & it's exhausting.
will you purchase me 
a mitten full of necessities?
i want to live inside a quiet year 
where nothing at all is true
& catastrophe befalls no one. we sit 
& watch a first snow repeat.
i can't find the red mitten anymore
& i like to imagine it
sailing to a different planet.
slipping back in time again & again
in search of its other side. 
or, maybe, other objects
aren't as focused on pairings 
as we are. to be honest though.
what would i do with it?
if i found the mitten
i might leave it completely.
little vacant space ship. if only 
i could fit my whole self inside
& not just a fist. 

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