By the time they snipped it from my finger
(not the same jeweler
a different one)
it wasn’t even dramatic.
All the drama had seeped out long before,
only to flare again in occasional battles
over laundry or late for dinner, evenings
punctuated by canned laughter
and commercials.
Something in me expected blood.
Instead, the merest click:
a tool created for this single
purpose, the jeweler stone faced
while engaged couples bent their heads over
black velvet and glitter.
————
Kathryn Paul writes poems on the bus, on the backs of envelopes, and at the kitchen table in her tiny apartment in Seattle. When she reads aloud she is grateful for bright lights and adjustable microphone stands. Her poems have been included in Words Dance, Snapdragon, and 4Culture’s Poetry on Buses: Writing Home collection.
THE FEM 