In Grandfather’s shop, I search for a pair of gloves,
but none seem to match. Either the right or left
has been lost in an act of forgetfulness.

I find a few that could be sculptures Rodin would have admired:
a hand gripping an invisible hammer, another resting as in a lap,
one pointing like it knew the correct direction.

His daily sweat soaked into the leather
making the palms shiny as calluses, fingers ridged
until stretched like skin, worn again.

I try them on and my fingerprints embed
on top of his. My hands ready to rake twigs and cones
blown down around the cabin all winter.

This poem first appeared in M Review and later appeared in Deer Drink the Moon: Poems of Oregon (Ooligan Press, Portland State University).
Used here with the author’s permission.