I‘d be descended from something
once precious enough to offer a god.
Turquoise, perhaps.
Cowries or stone beads.
Pelts of sable, ermine, marten.
Saffron, cinnamon, cloves, in packets.
Pekoe, oolong, or darjeeling tea.
All worthy enough. But no,
surely not one of these.
I’d want to be the kin
of that once-precious staple
now dismissed as commonplace,
forgettably plain. Me, descended
from an ancient currency
needing to be covered
to keep it from melting away.
Wrapped in a soft animal skin.
A small block of salt.
