Even her gloves revealed her: soft leather,
not a common black or ordinary brown
but a deep flamboyant orange,
the rust of late autumn, warm and supple.
They are the last things I have kept,
the final detritus after all the givings-away,
the ritual removals:
buttons in plastic pill containers,
assorted remnants of cloth,
zippers, needles, thread;
her clothes all gone,
her furniture distributed.
Left: these exuberant gloves
I cannot bear to part with.
For when I slip my hands into them,
I am held, perfectly.