Glimmers As They Go by Penelope Moffet

Glimmers As They Go

One by one
my linchpins
are subtracted,
leaving glimmers
as they go.
Pieces of jewelry,
pendants and earrings,
remind me of those who gave them:
Janet, Jeanie, Lynn,
Roger, Mom.
When I flash
their bits of brightness
at my throat, in ears,
do they gleam again,
those laughing ones?
I cling to them,
my wire turtles, beads,
abalone sweater clasps,
yellow corncobs of fertility,
rosewood amulet
that broke apart,
I shine them,
bring them often
into light.


Penelope Moffet lives in Southern California. Her poems have been published in One by Jacar Press, Gleam, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Sheila-Na-Gig and elsewhere. She is the author of two chapbooks, It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts).

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