A year to the day after the end,
the box, wearing thin as patience, splits.
Worn leather gloves spill out.
The woman gathers them in the usual way
and breathes in the scent that lingers there.
The man had a hand that could stall time. He mapped
the world of her skin with fingers, curved and soft,
like the ones that touch her now, a thing
still supple with life, unwilling to let go.
If you've any comment on this poem, Cheryl Snell would be pleased to hear from you.