My mother wore a bag of gold coins around her neck. Stars multiplied on the street, astonished. There was nervousness about god. Jewels were buried in the garden. It was a winter without a note of music. Even the clocks slept. The dead were blue as mountains. Somewhere, an opera suggested its overture. Streetlights disregarded the darkness. Ships crossed halfway to the New World. Canaries embroidered the night. Three babies arrived laughing. In my mother's house, a safe hoards 100 gold rings. Sleepless, she fingers her treasure in the basement. There is no end to the hunger, even now.

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Elizabeth Rosner is a poet and novelist living in Berkeley, CA, and teaching writing at a nearby community college. Her prize-winning work has appeared in numerous literary magazines, and her chapbook "gravity" was published by Small Poetry Press. She has just completed a new novel entitled "The Speed of Light."