Bakelite box, nicotine yellow.
Lift the lid, the rings
are old; they were hers.
Not scattershot but neat,
nicely held in the folds
of brown velour. Candlelight
shattered by diamonds, rainbow
at night. She left them all to me.
She was not to be buried
with anything -- not a stitch
went with her. Such is the revenge,
daughter, you shall have on the world:
You can't take anything with you.
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