Locket

Locket

 

 

The idea above granite,

or in the center

of it still,

where I hear

the faintest of heartbeats.

 

A tiny locket

bought in a pawn shop,

next to wedding rings

and pearl necklaces.

 

The picture inside

now ashes,

marking a cross

on my forehead

like I‘ve seen Nuns do,

letting go of someone

or everyone.

 

And no one cares to listen.

 

So I cut around

a picture of an airplane,

slicing a fingertip or two.

 

Using the blood for glue,

I paste it in my locket

to carry me from here,

when the ashes wash away.