Wearing the Beads

Long ago, I rode a bus twelve hours 
to a town up north cordoned by limestone 
and canopies of pine. It was December, 
morning frost glazing the cheeks of cabbages 
and fingers of bean. In the guest house, there was 
no heater— only a large metal drum filled with cold
water in the bathroom, a pink plastic dipper 
beside it. But I wanted to wash off the dust 
from the journey, before walking to the canteen
where the innkeeper's wife offered peppery 
smoked blood sausages and cups of brewed 
coffee. She asked if I wanted to see her basket 
of heirloom beads, and we went upstairs.
I fingered heavy strings of banded agate and 
carnelian, traced the brittle curves of shell 
and the interlocked keys of dried snake 
vertebra. She asked if I wanted to wear them
for a picture, stacked over my bare breasts 
as they used to do when this world was 
still theirs. I'd come to understand what
she meant when speaking of such loss,
and how blood is not only the animal's 
signature across our everyday rituals, 
but also one of the cords that tie us 
to the world of ancestors. People still
thread gleaming orbs of pig hearts 
and lungs with twine— offerings to hang 
in the branches of trees. By nightfall, 
these film over with rippling wings. 
In the village, I'd hear the dark
timbre of gongs. Even now, the sound 
is clear in my mind. After I left, I felt
sorry I'd passed up the chance to feel 
against my skin the stones that tumbled 
from one generation into the next.