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.

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