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The Ring

The band itself
you sold to a goldsmith-
a snake charmer of precious metals.
The powerful magma, she would spill like slow blood
under a torch.
It is said that gold shrieks like a lobster when cooked.
Perhaps the most difficult thing
is losing the power of its shape
a perfect circle,
bragging about eternity.

 

A ring for the woman
who left you
and flushed the baby,
would be named swirling
in the gyre.

 

But the gem,
Oh my god
the gem,
you plan to give to her, still.

 

So heavy, so hot
it will burn a hole in any box,
trinket, treasure, glove.
Because the diamond knows
it has been forsook-
no longer about love
its symbolism plucked out like an evil eye.
The iridescent rock, ripped from its conch like a molar,
heavily magnetized,
blind as a mole,
it will find a way
to roll home.

 

Poem by Heather Thomas

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