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.
http://www.muzzlemagazine.com/blog/-bettering-american-poetry-pushcart-nominations
http://www.muzzlemagazine.com/matthew-cook-1.html
