Precipitation
You showed me your grandmother’s ring—
A poison ring, you called it—that could hold a capsule
Of cyanide in it. But your grandmother used it
To hold a seed pearl from the strand that snapped
On her honeymoon. She’d knelt on the blue carpet
Of the hotel in Cape Cod, praying it wasn’t an omen,
Plucking the ashen beads from the navy fiber,
Cupping them in her palm (against her lifeline)
like rainwater, miniature hail, fine snow.
I love how evocative and connected the words are in this piece: cyanide, seeds, honeymoon, cod, beads, snow. All of it feeling small and able to be held and yet loaded with potential.
ReplyDeleteI adore this image: Cupping them in her palm( against her lifeline). Life and death all in one hand.
You are an amazing writer. Really. I am in constant awe and wonder by your work.