And when the golden rosary
my mother gave me shattered,
its innards poured to the floor
and clattered with a shower.
The seconds of the collapse
shook me for minutes
as the rosary rolled beneath
each couch, each table, down
the vents, the cracks in the mantle,
split by the brick, hidden in the shag.
And when the thunderstorm silenced,
I fell prostrate – hands dug in the rug
for a morsel of what I once had.
But I found only beads. Porcelain beads
like the ones tossed at Mardi Gras
and a clear plastic thread that head it together.
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