In memoriam, Isabella,
this locket hangs on a broken chain,
blond strands preened
into neat knots
and stitched with grey,
though then, she'd been freshly dead
and the thread
had been black,
bleak as her final day.
Before then -
the smith hammered her heart
from a block,
and gave it to Elisabeth
who fashioned the locks
with her wet tongue and needle,
holding her breath
so not to blow
her art into the air.
Once -
Young love
by the lake,
cucumber sandwiches
curl neglected
on red cotton checks.
