The silver bean planted in the valley of her
collar bones means new beginnings. Everything
grows where she cannot see. She has just met
the lady behind the counter, who tells her if she
wears this necklace layered she should get it in
a smaller size. But she wants it to stand out.
Heart-shaped bean, bean-shaped heart. Shatter
the mirrored measurement of herself, alone.
It gleams under ring lights, shuddering candlewick,
false stars. If we cut through it to find a shadow,
her disillusion, the last thing she will ever wear
or buy with her own money, to mean I belong
to me or no one, perhaps her faith in St. Valentine,
will return–temple priest, beheaded for wedding
couples. Later she walks to her car carrying a teal
giftbag, advertising the brand name: Tiffany & love.
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