White Pearls

beneath the cobble, my working
shoes shift between
the cracks, sticky sweet
a bird’s breakfast.

I meet a woman’s eyes, extracting
white pearls, she ascends
above me, feathers floating,
brief.

I was her once — white lace,
borrowed bodies, pale blue
morning glory

I never did own any pearls,
I traded them
for two sides of the bed,
clean sheets, the flowers,
I buy myself.

my hands lift with ease, maybe
I’ll play the piano, or the violin
you never showed me
your hands,
I never owned any pearls

By: April Allumbaugh

April is currently working towards a bachelor’s in Creative Writing and English at Southern New Hampshire University.