dave specifically, grief, poetry

salute

The last ring my husband made for me still fits.

We lived in our car then.
Outside the world,
molded to core and bone.

The ring sits differently now,
slides only halfway down
a finger so padded
it sometimes forgets what it’s made of.

The ring never forgets
where it came from.

It fits now, a widow’s ring,
always at half mast.

7 thoughts on “salute”

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