Before I left
the house each day,
my mother pinned
a disc of beaten
metal above my heart,
beneath my shirt
of pressed cotton;
on it, a modest
constellation
ringed a shape
and form— a woman
veiled and robed,
her features rubbed
beyond recognition
by time and fingers
fervent with
supplication.
Sometimes I held
its wafer edge
between my teeth,
considering:
why not rose,
why not honey?
This little
copper moon,
its iron and
protective tang.