Susan Mahan

When I was twelve years old,
Nana gave me
my first pair of leather gloves.
She called them kid gloves
and said they were the best.

They were supple and soft,
wonderfully scented
and lined with cashmere.

Those gloves kept my hands
from getting chapped
in our harsh New England winters.

When my husband died from leukemia,
people treated me with kid gloves,
but that didn’t help at all.

I bled from every pore.