The diaphragm flattens and holds.
My sister, twenty-seven, offers a medal of St. Christopher.
My friend loses another earring between her floorboards.
The tongue tucks behind the teeth.
My niece, four, asks when I’ll come down from the sky.
My friend and I imagine future anthropologists, interpreting the hoard.
The feet perceive the extra miles.
My mother, fifty-eight, voices true and untrue platitudes, one and the same.
My ring knows the way to the foundation.
The hair swings because it can.
My nephew, six, says the world will go on long after he’s dead.
Someone will find the diamond and see in its clarity the colour of loss.