It was

a stone on a gold chain. Ruby-red, garnet, 
winking.  Even the smallest arrangement  
gains value with time. You could pop it 
into your mouth and pretend its alchemy 
could stretch your arms into wings. It was 
a gift from your grandmother as soon as you 
waded into this world. No one quite understands
this is also a kind of armament. Even out of sight,  
its molecules clamor brighter than dust. No 
pawnshop can imprison it forever. You've seen 
a night-blue heron stand very still in the water,
waiting patiently for fish to slide into the net 
formed by its shadow. Postlude: the spear 
is quick, and one would hope painless.