Mittens Poem by Uljana Wolf

winter came, stretched its frames,

wove misty threads into the damp



wood. fogged windows, we didn't

recognise each other by our arms



which were too big, too baggy, all

borrowed onesies, into which we would grow, if they fitted us,



which, eventually, they will. would.

a verb like the sound of sleeves over



wet glass. like wet sleeves in a mouth,

sucking. through the frames we saw



snow portraits of mothers in parks,

wind-ruffled, on the verge of, but held



by ribbons, which led to hats, in der

mitte of gloves. saw the supply-threads



of winter, linty. and tested our roles,

tentatively, along the midlines of mittens.