Between her forefinger and thumb / my grandmother holds a needle threader— / a loop of wire on a tin coin / stamped with a lady’s cameo / so thin it must be valuable, the way / a dime is worth more than a nickel / She’d smudge her things with nail polish / to identify them as her own. What do you / call that color? Salmon? Dusty rose? / The cameo wears rose blush, scissors / with a dab of salmon above the hinge— / this when a pair of scissors was priceless . . .