Aunt Frieda got the diamond from her lover,
the butcher who refused to marry her
because his wife was in an institution.
After many ruinous years
she left him and gave the diamond
to my mother Ida.
Gentle Ida, who, at twenty
fell in love with Frieda’s brother
after seeing him raise clenched fist
from a soapbox at Brooklyn college
reciting Marxist dicta against
the unequal distribution of wealth.
Ida, a shopkeeper’s daughter,
unfamiliar with jewels,
liberated the little diamond
from its ringed prison to
a thin gold necklace
looped around her neck.
At her death, I unclasped the lock,
slid it off and held it
in my clenched fist.
It had so little to recommend it,
the butcher’s diamond.
And I believe
it carries Frieda’s disappointment
and Ida’s ambivalence.
Yet, I choose to wear it daily
as even with its flaws
it sparkles when the light is right.