— Tom Rimel
A coin forged base to precious, still radiating
Damp from months of fever clutched inside a fist.
Its head in profile,
A cheek raised in relief for the stroke of a thumb.
Its tail a shrine
Of marble and straw; mountain, bird, flag,
A stamp of aspiration circled laurel in declaration,
The baldest motto of the simplest soul:
“We are our God. Our God is love.”
Hide it dark inside a pocket,
Display it boasting under glass,
Rub until its charm is smooth and black.
It is a gift. You may not give it back.
I cannot take it back.
We bear its tendered weight
And all past loves now open pursed lips
To whisper it in.