The Necklace

I remember the day your necklace broke
and the beads fell in slow motion
like her fingers
like rotten fruit
like suicide jumpers
like all those things that have rolled away from me.

I picked up what I could,
and closed it in a little box

and years later,
after your death,

the jeweler passed it back to me
whole
and I wondered how he could do
such delicate work
with such fat fingers

and then I closed it
back in a little box
because there was nothing left now.