• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 01
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The Glove Maker

Show me your hand and I’ll fit you with gloves,
studded with pearls and precious stones
or lined with squirrel fur to keep you warm
on the coldest of nights when you have
no lover’s embrace.

My gallery of multi-hued gloves,
the finest Cordovan leather, taffeta
and sateen, yours for the taking My Lady.
Even dog-skin, from the animal most praised
for its loyalty.
Ah, but your gloved hand is a dove’s caress,
your lips and fingers remember
so many lovers, so many encounters.
A pearl grey glove from the Spanish Ambassador,
a stroll through a shaded olive grove
on a glass-sharp morning
when your heart is steady
but your kisses bitter.

For it is the Englishman
you cannot forget.
His touch, exhausted by pleasure
as he tastes your breath of sweet pearls.
In parting, he gives you a leather glove,
still warm from the recognition of
unfulfilled dreams.
He strides away
and you feel your soul crack open.


The Glove Maker

What colour glove today My Lady?
You select blue
the colour of melancholy.