Cold's Coming

Cold's coming marks the
Distance between the places
I call "home" on my body,
As if miles could be etched
By falling degrees.
My body, encapsulated in layered
Warmth, is sedimented geography.

I always wear a Land's End sweater—
Strictly American, catalog shopped—
A Singaporean gift before I
Returned it to the land
Of its merchandising,
Label so faded, its sweatshop past
In another clime unfathomable.

On top of that, an orange hoodie—
"Wild Rivers, Tasmania"—
A tourist buy against
The unexpected cold
At the world's other end.

Or, if my nose doesn't itch,
A black Canterbury
Fleece, that recalls
Another pilgrimage
Medieval souls undertook,
First worn eighteen years ago
When as elite high school
Students we made a study trip
To the Soviet Empire in
Its winter,
Shivering beneath uniform
Black sweaters.

Then, a gray discount
Down overcoat, larger than
It's warm,
And red quilted gloves,
Women's, the only pair from
The remainder bin fitting
My Asian hands.
Bogg boots and knitted
Beanie cap accent
My uncoordination.

Frayed cuffs, torn seams,
Loose elastic, rickety zippers:
Over-worn.
I don't toss them out,
These maps of peregrination.

Unlike our forebears in
Climate controlled Eden,
We wear the fig-leaves
Of our wandering.