Plastic, spiderform, childhood prize
from a vending machine. Tossed aside, vanished.
Mood indicator in white metal
recalled from adolescence.
So many in silver, incised, cast,
bought at powwows: where are they?
Two in torn soft gold,
each bearing a different grandfather’s initial,
stolen along with antique Dine’,
turquoise gone green with age; heirloom heartbreaks.
Moebius strip in hardened 14 karat rose
rendered venomous by living,
sold for weight upon release into non-desperation:
what my fingers would be now, what I would be now
without these ghost adornments, I cannot imagine.