Yesterday's Man

by Alison Craig

You came back to rock my soul
one day of indecent summer in February.
Searching the loft for a different history,
breathing sun-bathed wood, spinning dust
and something odd and sweet,
like cinnamon, or nostalgia.

In a darkening corner long forgotten,
veiled in plastic and a decade of stour,
a box. There, on top, gloves. Brown leather,
wool lined. I remember the utter comfort.
Lift them now, so cool, take you to me again,
bury my face in you.

Time melts in my hands, drips through my fingers.
Knuckles stretched to bone-shine,
tendons stitched fiercely into the backs,
like love. Then place them together,
as if to drink you from their bowl.
Hollow fingers fall becalmed,
palms crease like desire, cupping memory,
catching breath-warmed days
and star-cooled, tangled midnights.

Your last letter said you don't recognise
the leaning sadness that is you, yesterday's man,
in the mirror. I pull on the gloves,
tug at their beating wrists, stretch fingers.
Feel their hot grip reaching into the soft of me.