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).
