It sits inside the soft dipped U of her throat:
“something white” pried loose from the mouth
of the Australian South Sea and
hung on a gold chain.
The alarm of clinking glasses
forces another kiss.
My mother whispers from behind her place card.
Can you imagine how much all this cost?
I drink my champagne
and imagine the hidden tree fort,
a game for only a girl and a boy,
(and later she)
insisted all children play.
My mother leads a conga line
of sisters, uncles, nephews and nieces.
She finds Him at the end
closes the circle,
clasps hands to hips.
I imagine it expelled onto the white tablecloth,
amongst the origami napkins, the sugared almonds.
I imagine it glistening on the fine bone china,
The thirteen years of nacre.
I imagine the cost.