Meryl Natchez

Gem Stone

Years of drips in just one spot
scarred the worn enamel of the sink
one drip at a time
until the powdered glass unfused its mineral bond
laid bare the iron underneath
in one black star of use. 
So, after forty years
your essence reveals itself:
familiar, wear-hardened, flawed—
the one I fell for
before I knew anything,
glove to my hand, derringer
in my pocket, sand in my oyster,
four decades
polished to pearl.