We wear the sweaters of the dead.

Our fathers’ wool, our husbands’ fleece;

they are down to our knees and free of the raw fibers

only new sweaters know.

These have been broken in:

blowing out sprinklers in the fall, shoveling snow,

arms fastened to books in front of the fire; 

they were underneath office jackets and winter coats.  

They carry the memories of little hands,

transformed from white to pink on the sledding hill;

their fibers are still pulled from wedding rings 

caught underneath the heat of arms,

valiant and lusty on winter’s mountain.

We do not care if they go with our shoes,

or if they accentuate our curves;

such matters are of no account when wearing the sweaters of the dead.

Their looks, and labels, and age are of no consequence,

not even if they have been flung into the dryer

accidentally shrunken into new versions of themselves.

We do know what that is like.

We care only that they keep us warm,

and that everywhere they’ve been will always be

with everywhere we go.