Prized like catastrophe,

A pendant on a grubby piece of string

Is a microcosm,

Suspended in a dazzling

Hollow of your chest.

Hunched

With the weight of it,

You summon duende

On a tatty guitar.

 

There’s witchcraft in your fingers.

How else could they find the world

By accident,

Discarded on the top floor

Of a junk shop somewhere.

 

Evading stooped men

Who scuttled from their reflection,

And women who once hoarded curious,

You took flight, persuasive

As a baby bird.

 

Even your conceits have wings:

A moth and all its implications

Does your work for you, leaving hours

To conjure the universe from a fistful of sand.

 

Sleek-eared, envy-eyed,

You’re a shadow in search of light,

A dusty trinket on loan.

When you finally show your hand,

I see the pendant’s not a timepiece,

Mosaic,

Or multifaceted stone-

It’s just a piece of glass,

Glossy as water.