I Wear My Gloves to Her Goodbye by Gizelle Fletcher

I wear my gloves to her goodbye,
a wave that stirs the air. I hug
my scarf unto my neck
until it becomes my skin.
Rain fills my mouth with diluted talks
of the fickle weather, and the Sun’s yellow songs
stage their final show.

Her hair billows like ribbons of the Sun’s yellow songs
that no-one wears to her goodbye. She has never seen me naked.
I wear the cold as my outer coat until it becomes
my skin. If there is a natural disaster,
I must be prepared: I have my gloves to wave goodbye,
a song to stir the air.

I start a sonnet about the sky
and its enormous smile – but it reads instead
like an elegy for the wind, for the skin
it cannot touch. Rain becomes
a diluted song with a cold outer coat.
We talk of the weather often,
but are always unprepared.

I start a sonnet about the sky
but I cannot write love poems anymore.
She has never seen me naked: I wear suede gloves
to her goodbye. The Sun’s yellow songs perform
before an empty audience: they cannot reach
to touch our cold coat, our peeling, paling skin.
I drown a poem in my mouth
with talks about the weather.


She has never seen me naked.
I need my gloves to finish this elegy, to wave
and stir the weather.

I shiver down 10th in the winter,
my scarf as my skin,
to remember how to write love poems –
of natural disasters; of the skin
the storm longs to touch;
of the Sun’s yellow, forgotten songs.
that have still not seen
me naked. I am unprepared for this disaster,
natural and beautiful as the sky’s enormous smile,
so I wear my gloves to her goodbye.


Gizelle Fletcher was born and raised in Kingston, Jamaica. She is currently a poet in the University of Florida’s MFA program. She, sadly, does not own a cat.