In This House We Believe in Sweaters

When winds out of the north
drive the temperature in the kitchen down
well past where butter will spread,
it’s sweaters we turn to. No
spinning the dial on the thermostat
into the braising reaches of August.
We get enough August
in August. Enough of sleevelessness
and scoop necks. Enough of bare feet.
No sense spending any hundred bucks on heat
that will seep away by suppertime. In this house
we amortize the cost of a good sweater
over fifteen, twenty years. In this house,
we cover up.

In this house we cover up
in layers. We believe in microclimates. We start
with a layer of long johns, then build loft
with a layer or two of knit — where fussless weathers of body heat
cloister from the chill. In this house our loft of choice
is wool: merino, mohair, camel, alpaca. Dog.
Wool socks and scarves and shawls. Wool
glove liners. But most especially
sweaters. Pullover, cardigan, fisherman knit.
Crew neck, cowl neck, turtleneck, vee
— whatever have you, so long as
the fiber’s first mustered by those
who grew it.

But steering clear of polyester doesn’t mean
we spurn invention — R values and double-pane
glass. If we don’t plug in blankets, neither do we
hunker under skins — though our bedcovers’ weight does recall
the hides of bison. Of bear. We take for granted
the ingenuity of pockets. Of button holes and
zippers. Just, when in sweaters, so much
the better. At night we shear off our sweaters one by one
and splay them over the foot of the bed, where
they baffle any shearling heat seeping
toward escape. And when our own thin pelts have warmed the sheets,
we shear off our wool socks too,
and let our bare feet mingle —reconciling touch
to what heat in August repelled them from:
ankles, arches, skin.

Originally published in Common Ground
and subsequently published in
Voices de la Luna: Earth in Peril, Earth in Praise