The Black Glove
Because my mother was born in the beginning of the last century she wore gloves to parties and other functions including film screenings. Her choice most often was the black glove. She had leather ones, silk ones and lace ones. Because she stored them in a camphor-wood chest they had a scent to this day reminds me of my mother just like Chanel No 5 does.
When I was in the Argentine Navy as a conscript I was often sent to deliver documents to a big navy building that was called El Elefante Blanco. One day I decided to play a little trick. I told the chauffeur of my boss, the Senior US Naval Advisor, Captain Onofrio Salvia USN to allow me to ride in the back of the black Chevrolet Impala that was the captains’s car. He agreed. At the time I had a beautiful black leather brief case and a lovely pair of very expensive and close fitting black leather gloves. I finished my modified uniform with a pair of handsome sunglasses.
When we arrived at the Elefante Blanco, the chauffeur got out and opened the door for me. As I walked up the stairs the guard all saluted me as did a few non-commissioned officers. I felt like a million bucks!
Black Glove
A poem
By D.A. Powell
April 15, 2016
There she was we said
flat on her back on the sidewalk
outside Burdick’s like a lost crow
in the snow, splayed
open as a question
mark, the time,
mark the time
you said, like it was dead
and picked it up
Who would have missed this bird
on their fist or their dainty wrist
it seemed she could have been anyone’s
but no one claimed her on the street
where fingers extended begged for change
to invest them with humanity again
a simple hand inside a hand
but you took the entire night on
with a warm stranger. And it fit you.
— In Memoriam, C. D. Wright
Originally published at blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com.
