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Your Body Warmth Is My Wisdom Worn Commonly

Rhiannon Thorne

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from one mantel to another

I wait in a womb of Chinese silk, thoughtfully tucked
away from other ornaments, in a dark
where I wait for her
more than she waits for me.

Once, I grew on the soft pallet of a sea of tongues.
Once, I knew the covenant of salt, was built
to protect, to grow hard against
assailant.

Was it your greed which stole me from mouths? Or hunger?

Now, I’m your adornment. Your adored. When I dull,
you take me from your soft skin and acid, and worry
your oils from me.
I have my own rag. My own care.

When I lie in the dark, I cannot even click my spine of nacre.
I make no noise, cannot rustle my truths:
                                         I don’t wear Grief, Grief wears me
                               like her mother’s pearls—I am the last on,
                                                                  I am the first off.