As you know, a pearl is made
from an oyster’s anger,
that grit of sand that sends the poor thing
into a conniption fit until it
spits forth a tiny globe of luminescence.

In my silk bag are many pearls,
spun from disappointments, regrets,
betrayals, failures, and fear,
still glowing under their milky skin,
strung together by the strand of my life,
still glowing, but now cooled to the touch.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

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