Friday, April 3, 2020


A pair of black rubber gloves, tugged off and wadded
inside out, beside the jar of pens. The material
 is soft, satiny. The landscape is dotted with holes,
one of us standing in each one, we can't see
over the top, can't reach over
to the next chamber, even though the walls are thin
and we can hear our neighbors thumping around
on every side, the tips of the gloves
are sticky, the air is thin and crackles
with layers of whisper, onionskin paper
wrapped around a tree branch,
a tape dispenser, smooth black screen covered
in sharp cracks, empty black stapler,
file cabinet drawer gummed shut, I can hear
 a buzzing from inside, and the bumping around
of small, soft bodies, I work my fingers
into the gloves and work to pry it open 
Inside there is nothing but a black comb,
a single strand
of yellow hair
caught in its teeth.

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