I wear an opal ring. They say it is bad luck.
I am a marked woman because it is not my birthstone
and I was not born in October.
They say its curse is lessened if given as a gift.
But I think not, since I coveted this ring and its dainty setting,
its years of history hidden away in the gold band
with etched sweet engraving already softened by time.
I wear an opal ring, a gift from a lover
who left long before the stone became brittle,
broken and lost, leaving a filigree ring, empty and gaping.
They say its curse could have been drowned, held under water,
preserving the opal’s luck for your eventual return.
But I would rather keep the empty carcass of youth
hidden in a box between velvet folds waiting for one who loves me.
I wear an opal ring, with fiery stone held secure
by four newly forged gold prongs whose simplicity contrasts
with flowers etched long ago, but now forgotten.
They say its curse is a myth that even a queen with all
her gifts of benevolence could not quell.
Yet a new lover, offering hearty stone from down under
promises resilience and for a moment, I believe in luck.