The child who dreamed the Diamond Dog
was an old child. One so still
she could catch butterflies in her hands
while standing before the lantana hedges.
One so quiet her voice ossified into
a diamond, the
stone of marriage, always missing,
as were the rings, their playful jewels,
their Byzantine dogs.
                                  I am asking you to pay attention to the fact
I didn’t know my life was
a drawer filled with colored scarves like wings
so carefully folded
by ethereal hands.

But entity is never just one thing.

First I studied the piano, then gave it
up/I don’t know how people
make small talk or converse
with strangers. They must believe
in singularity.

I trust no one to perceive me complete: to recognize
that I am not just one thing,
a one-faceted surface without wings. I have
that in common with the Diamond Dog. Yet, even I, at first
saw him as smooth and transparent.

When I was little, the
sparkle of the Diamond Dog was will-o-the-wisp
flying away with my father.
And while some might say I was just a girl, standing before
the lantana hedge,
holding butterflies,
they are wrong. There is never
just one facet to any diamond. Nor is beauty
only silken scarves,
             butterflies,
                          or diamonds.