The Locket

It's spring. Outside
clovers flower and I can smell
a wreath. A crown
that, when placed upon my head,
turned a six-year-old
into a princess.

It's spring. Daisies
blossom and I'm racing them
to beauty. Jewelry
tumbles from my box and I take
in my freshly manicured hand
the forgotten locket.

Gold. It's pure gold,
my nanny would boast as she combed
my disobedient hair and picked
aphids off my scalp. No more
clover wreaths, she'd scold,
thus imprisoning me.

The delicate chain frames my neck
and the locket rests gently
between my unripe breasts
And I know.
This pendant is meant for someone
else.

It's spring. I'm watching
at the window and a little girl
is skipping, fresh picked daisies
in her slender hand, and I look
into a mirror one last time
to take the necklace off.

She's humming, skipping toward me.
The girl stops by my window-
she smiles-
and gives me her bouquet.
I slip the golden locket into her hand and
it's spring.