fogged each a distinct cataract blue
beads drape my daughter’s neck when I pull it
down from the shelf the jewel box
smells of very old woman what remains
of great grandmother’s chest pinch
the golden lock shining the objects inside O
to be as small and lovely and precious
as these my daughter fingers the pins grandmother wore
in life clips the widowed
earrings their counterparts gone
as the earlobes of the woman made
more lovely by these pearls
we sit my daughter and I adorned
and cross-legged on the floor it is important
on occasion to recall the way a jewel ripens on the body
reflecting each new generation of light
as it’s birthed through the window’s perfect crotch
