My best friend’s crystals collect light by her windowsill.
My stone of choice is turquoise. A teardrop, a shield,
small god. It sits on my wrist
at approximately the same temperature
as my mama’s hands,
when I’m sick. I write, They were always
so cool, like water. I write, because
I hurt. I hurt, so I am sick. Answer strewn
in pebbles cuz I’m too old for crying
at the table and I’ve asked Creator
one too many times
to smite me where I stand. My bad.
I get up and out of bed.
I leave my face bare.
I don’t wear jewelry,
except when my mother asks
where my turquoise is/ if I wear it,
and I remember the cuff
on my wrist.
It never feels like a chore,
but feeding myself does.
I am drawn to water, nowadays.
It is so much a part of me,
the stone must have found its way
to my most secret of hearts.
I drink, slowly.
I dream of rain.
My eyes collect light that gathers
and falls. It becomes me.
The showers of tumbling stars.