A new poem by Gillian Sze

The Day After I Lost My Mittens

Mittens, I will misplace.
This, in itself, is enough to show
that today has nothing of yesterday.

There are other signs, of course.
A woman sits without teeth,
a blue bow resting in her hair.

The stump of a banana stalk
browns in the sun
a bird’s foot.

Mittens, I will misplace.
There are other losses more permanent:
the warm buttered smell of sleep,

your cooling contours,
a heat sitting on a tongue
like a bed of humus.

The telephone rings
and your voice sways
like the sun in the wind.

You ask if my hands are cold.
I say, Yes. They are.
They’re freezing.