by Miranda Stone
I am like the hollow bones of a bird
in her palm. Toeing the precarious
line that divides her adoration
from her contempt, I wait for her fist
to close, reducing me to brittle slivers
she can brush from her fingers.
I feel for the ring on my left hand,
a force of habit, and remember
I no longer have reason to wear it.
She wrapped her own ring neatly
as a birthday present. It was her gift
to me the day I signed the papers,
a proposal in reverse.
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