Months after I brought them back,
I took them out of their plastic wrappers—
dark lake of cotton studded with beadwork,
trellis of fibers embroidered with vines;
earrings of bone and mother-of-pearl
pierced through with loops of horsehair.
I might have paid too much, but I
wanted them for what they know of skies
I can’t lie under anymore, fields I’m not
even sure my bones could return to.