Rough gloves

I lost my hands & knit replacement onesfrom spiders’ threads, stronger than steel but softas lambs’ wool. Catching as they do on nails& your collarbone, you don’t seem to liketheir rough warm presence on your cheek or thigh.I’ve asked you if you minded, you’ve said no(your face a table laid with burnt meat, breadso stale it could break a hand). Rememberyour senile mother’s face above that table?I’d say she got the meaning of that look.You’d rather not be touched by these rough gloves,the only way I have to knit a loveagainst whatever winters we may enterlike a silkworm in a spider’s blackened maw.