Ring Finger


Years after, my mother 
explained you beat 
everyone equally, even
the real sons. What a relief. 
You stepped further 
into each one of us, 
until you reforged 
our faces, animated 
our bodies and continued 
to swing. I looked 
through you to my mother,
and saw a dead girl shining 
through her ring finger, 
banded and bandaged, 
sewing a torn-up jumper: 
slipping in and out 
of the same worn fabric, 
as if the rent could be mended.













Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editor(s) of Muzzle Magazine

who first published this poem.






Poetry and feature at HocTok