I bought myself a ring:
silvery, shaped like a fox.
I slip it on my right hand,
on the third finger. On my left
I still wear my wedding ring
from Andrew, although I am
long widowed. You too are dead.
I’m fourteen years a widow now.
It feels long. You, I have mourned
54 years already. It seems like
yesterday. I don’t need a ring
to remember you, or him.
But I like the thought of at last
bringing you, too, physically present.
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