are a woman’s diadems,
strings of milky agate
and bits of polished bone
she stripped from her hair
and gleaned from the altar
fashioned of her clavicle.
It’s hard to see them now—
but they’re there, swimming
in the onyx currents
above reach, speckled bands
she once hung in the arms
of trees. She took them off
because of the weight
of timeless things.
Bar, space, bar
above her breasts.
Once light-filled hollow.
Clouds of golden chaff
with every swing of the pestle:
so close, so bound to earth.
In response to Via Negativa: Unlikely.