This girl give back a diamond? No, no!
I won’t give back what coalesced in quiet
one quotidian but indelible night when
from the pits a glimmer I perceived.
The young girl ready to go to glory,
quieted as it dried her eyes, and
in place of the gentle ma she lacked
found it carved for her a secret room
and warmly swaddled her there.
Of fears . . .
hadn’t it ended those
like curfew and its tears? And
hadn’t it counselled her like Carl
till she saddled hope and rode out
to better, and beyond?
Squeezed out in darkness and full of anger,
those tears were made to stay back and
wet no more than that long ago time,
and there sequestered forever,
allowed the maiden to sail free.
And sail she has
on one letter after another and
from port to port, sea to sea, always
finding challengers, like Sally —
challengers she rode triumphantly.
No, she will not give back
what she found in meditation
without a hem of religion. She will
not give back what she can wield
like sticky fire and heavy rain.
What else would nature confer
if she gave the letters back? What
if she parted from her true love?