birthstone

we shared rubies
in the house without a roof.
my aunt watched the phillies
while i would sneak into
the poster room where
they said my uncle used to sleep walk.
his hand prints are still 
on the ceiling. 
i was only the size of grain of rice. 
on most days, i still am.
a good breeze will take me somewhere else. 
our birth days were only three days
apart. i believe in birthstones
more than astrology.
the yearning for a color
trapped in the earth's ugly fist.
i refuse to believe the truth.
that a room of money people
picked the rocks. 
can we salvage it from them?
probably not. late-stage capitalism
is not a graveyard; it is a pit
of hair. but i do know my aunt joan
looked best in that laughing red.
not a garnet. not a blood stone.
a ruby. a fearless tooth in the mouth
of an unraveling earth. she was sometimes
the only one who listened to me. 
rooms of cousins. we sat away
in the quiet shag carpet rec room.
did not ask questions. just let me tell 
her all the nothing stories
i wanted. one day she gave me
all her birthstone jewelry.
little velvet clams & inside
a pair of earrings. a necklace. 
a stuffed bear. i slipped inside their colors. 
sometimes i woke up in her hair. i still do. 
the smell of roses & blow-dryer. 
i don't know where the jewelry went.
passing from room to room.
it is not lost. it can't be lost.
maybe a seed for a future
vein. maybe i swallowed them
when i wasn't looking. 
maybe when she died
she did not just go to the soil
but to the stone. something about
her fingers still moving 
when the light comes without
any teeth.