The bracelet lies across my upturned wrist, arrayed over thin flesh and delicate tendons. Small spheres of milky jade green strung along a red-silk cord. Each bead is separated by a smaller gold bead and an even smaller scarlet knot. But the delicate, fibrous cord has broken; the fine threads — tassled and frayed — unravel slowly. Only the small, tight knots keep the beads from spilling, scattering, spinning to the room’s limits. Small satellites and stars destined for loss with deep shadow. The scarlet cord, a lash across my wrist; a slim weal. Each diminutive knot, a bead of blood.