
It was coiled and glowing in a single ray
of light, speaking of treasure maps
and I am there when she gives it to you,
the thin gold filigree weaving delicate
through coral one after another, jostling
into the tender skin of your palm
cupped like a boat that had sailed too far
to be retrieved by a golden hook
that cut into the bark of heart and home
but landed somewhere between reality
and the wound that never heals:
“I’m leaving it with you,” I hear her say
to you. And you look at it like the sum
of all mysteries and said to her, to me,
“Where will you go? Can’t you stay?”
and I said, she said, “It’s no more use to me,
maybe for you,” and you tore the coral off
your neck and your hands bled for a season
and a day, until you drew…
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nacre skin
a win
string of pearls
how lovely!
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