Author: Faithless Juliet PM
I’m obsessed with opals at the moment, they’re popping up all over the place in my mind. “A diamond is just another word for imprisonment.”Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Poetry - Words: 382 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 2 - Published: 09-23-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2723696
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I think it should be said early on that I have no heritage.
Rather, that is, I have fat Americanisms,
I have nothing before that -
nothing before womb flipping, flippant
contradicting the thickness of my
lightly blue blood.
It is not a pure blue, as say, another
daughter's might have been. It is periwinkle,
assure, astute to habitual harbors. Congenial to
the softer-still soullessness,
cemented, like our hand writing
(all three of us) underneath
the fireplace in the living room, those
pen marks spilling across the floor before
the house was completed,
because you knew,
even with my infancy still ripe, pluckable,
yet, not, that this would be my home.
Even before that, it seems to have been
understood that my birthstone would
be the ghoulish watery opal, scornful,
wasteful, as predetermined in your
winterish February love making,
and yet, my father never kissed
my mother's lips in front of me, my
mother never reached for my father's
boney hand. And even as a child,
I pointed this out to them, from the backset
of an old car, that they never did
are meant to do,
peopling the world, as
people do. I was never stupid, though
I faked it for a few years.
An aunt of mine procured an opal
necklace for me, after several years
of birthday wishes, and when I saw the
stone for the first time I gasped,
disappointed, I had imagined
passionate rubies, earthen emeralds,
rocks masquerading as gem stones
cut into tiny squares, and I wore it around
my neck for a while, a few times maybe,
before discarding it for other jewels,
other incarnations - a rhinestone set of
bulbous earrings, that sparkle like I'm more
important that the beauty of them. My
great-grandmothers alexandrite engagement ring,
gold band worn thread-thin, too small for me.
A diamond is just another word for imprisonment.
I meant it when I said I had no heritage,
I meant it when I questioned a love that was less
loving then my wrinkle-eyed perceptions commanded
it to be.
Symbolism has more to do with perception, then
occupation, or so I'm lead to believe.
Even realism through the guise of an opal is easy to conceive.