The Devil's Pawn Shop

I dreamt there was a pawn-shop which only sold
things that people had held clutched while they
died. There were a great many kerchiefs, some
edged in lace crocheted by somebody’s
great-grandma, some streaked in mucous. There
were pocket-watches, the sort that used to
be granted by mining companies upon retirement
or passed from sire to son upon the
accomplishment of a 21st birthday. There
were greying kid leather gloves with
twisted fingers and engagement rings
rolling through trusting palms. There were
several chunks of gold and ladie’s fans and
one smooth, curiously cool grey stone,
the exact shape and heft of a
raindrop flattened by its own weight
at impact, the exact size of my
outstretched palm, made to hold and
curl the fingers over. The whole store
was several dusty little rooms, walls
and floors all bare [? illeg.] unstained wood
and creaking, slanting. It led back in a
little circle on itself to the entrance,
I wandered through to the door with
this stone, I know there were several
other people in the first room, all
vaguely, mustily female, exuding the
withered hymen scent of
Miss Havisham’s, there
was no one in any of the other rooms.