rubber glove growing
i grew rubber gloves like children
on the fire escape & on every windowsill.
lonely & drifting farther away
from the word "family."
i told myself "i can make communion
from only doorknobs & light bulbs."
curled up & became a thumb.
this is how protection began.
my simple desire to not have skin.
blue gloves & purple & white.
the distance between flower & glove & father
& little one. i was the little one
in the town of dead-faced churches.
we walked farther than the road
knew what to do with. bears taking handfuls
of garbage back into their geodes.
i put the gloves on each day & rooted
in the sky for a poison fruit
to hold & contemplate. one summer
i was obsessed with having pet toads.
finally, i captured two & set them
in a pale of dirt. in the morning
they were two rubber gloves.
i spoke to them. i promised
to stare at them all day long
if that's what they needed. in the end though
everything is a glove. worn & weathered.
i can use what you said as a barrier
between the world & whatever self
i've kept from spilling. my gloves
were the most beautiful though
in the whole neighborhood. i harvested.
laid them down like emptied hands.
where do you go to make
all the hands the day
will ask of you? all you need
is a planter & a sense of terror.
they will bloom like mothers.
or, maybe, i am the mothers
& they are, like i originally thought
just blooming like babies do.
new & ready to by made into balloons.