Vultures

When my favorite aunt died, her daughter
went through her jewelry. It was not precious
as rubies are precious. It was precious
as strangeness is precious. Or time.

We didn’t take turns. We stroked the beadwork
that would lie flat in our hands. We held glass
up to the light. We told one another,
This would look good on you. My mom named
the occasions for which my aunt chose
a jasper ring, a pair of tiny chandeliers;
she remembered the vendor who clasped
my aunt’s hand. Melanie chose us too.

When I was a teenager, I could hardly admire
her enough, I could hardly admire her earrings
without leaving with them, strands of brass
and ceramic brushing my neck.

The night after my cousin told us to choose,
I felt like a vulture, like I had let death make me
a profiteer, and I felt like I should have said yes
to every dangle and bangle no one else
would take. But then I’ve always been one
of their number, a scavenger, the sort to see
a devastation and wonder what part
could be made to fuel my song.