One blue cashmere sweater
that I wish I could wear
but am allergic to wool,
given by a former
employer, one large hole
up near the right shoulder,
round, like it took a bullet
for me, in the closet.
Held up to the light,
a series of smaller holes,
the opposite of braille
across the back, exit
wounds perhaps.
In a different closet,
(in all honesty, quite a mess)
while looking for old slip-on boots
to go outside for firewood,
finding red snowsuits, outgrown,
rollerblades, and a grey plaid wool hat
I always hated, eaten down to the felt,
white as snow or bones, the tag says
L.L. Bean and in blurred blue ink,
my husband's name, somewhat faded.