Poetry of Love, Valentine’s Day 2022
Nancy: One day during the pandemic an image popped into my mind. Someone I knew once, wore gloves whenever she was out in public. She seemed aloof and perhaps a bit lonely, but I believe love had touched her life.
E d i e
In summer, her gloves were cotton edged with lace,
skimming the edge of her slim, speckled wrists,
touching peaches at the market stand.
In winter, peach cans poised in palms of goat skin
or cashmere—proof that she was not like you at all.
Her hands had once been leather gloved, riding horses
from his stable. Taming horses, if not him.
At night, she’d take her riding gloves to bed, breathing
the odor of the promises he’d made.
In dreams, the bridle paths they followed would be hers.
Once caught, her social world deflated fast.
Some say she left for Argentina.
Married there, a man who took all her money.
She never took his name, of course, but brought
him home to show the others how well he rode.
N a n c y P r i t c h a r d W e i s s
Christine: My grandparents met in Provincetown at the beginning of WWII. He was a blue-eyed baker’s apprentice from Baltimore stationed on Marconi Beach. She was a Mayflower descendant who favored bikini tops and grass skirts. She told her mother she was visiting a friend— and went to a dance instead.
T o k e n s
Grandma Eva’s favorite
lipstick was red
but not just any red
Revlon’s
Cherries in the Snow
a drug store salve
sticky enough
to plant a blossom
on my cheek
at Grandpa Joe’s
funeral
Its svelte gold tube
slight enough to bury
in the pocket
of her black silk dress
tough enough
to hold up the Parthenon
C h r i s t i n e K a l a f u s