Papa's Sweaters

In my grandma’s closet
was a trunk full
of shed winter skin:

folded arms-crossed
like a dead man’s wake,

musky with the cigarettey smoke
of the television Yule log.

How many times
did I wear these sweaters
as his arms around me?

How many times
did I ride piggy-backed
and his sweaters wore me?

They still do.

Cleaning her closet,
she was going to
throw them away.

She thought they’d be
too big for me.

She was right.