March #4

The Point is the Light

We walk from the temple

after the feast,

down the hill to the car.

Navigating uneven ground, 

I catch a glint between stones: 

black sheen,

and a blue-green inky sliver.

A peacock's chest feather?

The splinter of colour

along its spine

flashes iridescent 

against the surrounding dark.

I turn it this way and that

between finger and thumb —

such a tiny thing —

watching the brightness 

move and spread.

My friend finds another,

rainbow stripes fanning

wide across the tip.

"They're both yours," she insists.

(Earlier, over dinner,

she helped fend off 

that oaf who tried to hit on me.)

— Rosemary Nissen-Wade