Phoebe: Journal of Gender & Cultural Critiques, 18(1), 2006
And where the necklace fell,
A fire brewed steady,
Ruby flare, a collar tinged
With disappointment,
Culling sunlight from the brooding clouds.
The string rumbled to ground
With the cry of a stranded loon.
This stroke on a sidewalk in winter
Claimed matriarch’s high arch
And landed thwack, homerun
In plane against the ice.
Her hand reached out,
A sieve to catch the gems.
They slipped right through the paper net.
Heirlooms were raindrops.
And where the necklace fell,
The studs uncoupled,
Crude approximates
Of ornaments lay,
Her single beads of sinus rhythm
Cut
Out
Cold.