Red Stone

Like a drop of sacrificial blood
It once rested, upon her breast.
A ruby? A garnet? A diamond?
It was all, and it was none.
The stone had seemed to pulsate,
Like a beating heart; her heart.
Hung upon a chain of dead gold
In a false setting.
Sometimes hidden,
It spoke in a whisper,
Against her skin.
Women envied its beauty,
Men envied its place.
Who had given it
That she treasured it so?
Was it payment? Or stolen?
Or discovered in the sands in her youth?
Sunlight made it bleed,
Moonlight made it die.
What had it meant to her?
She who lay upon the tiles
Her blood as red as the stone…
The red stone clutched in a stiff hand.
And now, as I look upon the stone,
Once as perfect as the woman,
Broken at my feet,
It…. is cracked.

Early 1980