Found trespassing
   In my night-climbing shoes
And little else…
   At the third rung
I told them, ‘I’m assembling
   Uranus and the five moons
In less traditional
   Circuitry.’ For this
They threatened
   To lock me away, my daughter.

Your grandmother, back in
   Forty-one, was the keeper
Of several interlocking
   Platinum rings [history’s
Repertoire leaves
   Its trail of orderliness] but
Know how she swapped
   That war time dowry, worth
A fifth of gross entitlement,
   For sacks of rice and sweet potatoes.

These days you cry
   Songs of losing; as if I, none of us
Had ever known the pinch
   Of letting fall
What was crystallized
   – Or consciously aspired.
Damn it! I taught you not
   To accept diamond dealerships:
They’re none other than
   The dual wall-eyed bitch –, sobriety.

Two moon discs are left us. These
   You’ll divide between
Your choreographed children.
   May they understand
Compassion is measured
   By wealth inherent
In all
   Its bright
Abundance
   …My daughter.