SALVATION ARMY
At the Diggy Bins,
nickname ours, we sought survivors
amidst all manner
of matter heaps of worn
stuffed animals knick-knacks toys severed
from larger sets tangled cords straggling
small kitchen appliances dumped directly from donation boxes
into wooden bins dilapidated stretched in long rows
broken glass compounding chaos the rough treatment of it all
my mom’s teeth
were a map; her sixth sense
of significance winding paths to floating islands of
value chameleon-ed in the accumulation—
figurines pottery jewelry worth up to sixty times what you’d pay easy
if you could recognize the faded artist signatures
the gentle markings of validity
how real gems hit different
on your teeth
than cubic zirconia.
There is nothing more useful than knowing
what to love.
This is how I learned—
my mom digging for a diamond
in the rough, furtively tapping
a tarnished jewel
to her canine, listening
for its final word.
By Ginger Harris
Biography:
Ginger Harris is an emerging writer who lives in Denver. She has a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from the University of Wisconsin, Madison, where she also studied creative writing. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @ayla.poetry