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a woman in a red jacket
picked up a glove from the snow
—smaller than a sparrow on an ice-covered branch—
and carefully hung it on a tree
a few days later
in my mother’s cupboard
I found gloves with woolen suns—
rays climbing up every finger
I shuddered to think
she embroidered them herself
I was unsure if they’d been mine
and she
had slipped them from my hands
wrapped them in a scarf
and tucked them in the highest cupboard
jealous of my gaze like a squirrel
who won’t hide a nut
while you watch
I was a bit surprised
she carried them as if they were her wounded children
and I, her adult daughter, stood in the door
with no right to enter into the covenant
between mother and the girl
I once was
suddenly I felt I cast no shadow
