rings

the rings on my fingers 

as my mother dressed me for

church were cold metal reminders

of how i wasn’t

“like other girls.” the

silver bands 

screamed at me to be 

more like my cousins 

and less like myself. 

the rings of a tree stump

forced me to accept

that all things must age as i, only twelve, 

skipped back from school

to my grandmother’s home. her

fingers were like the slim branches

of the tree when it still stood.

now she rots like the 

roots of a cut-down cedar.

the ringing in my ears

sent me spiralling on my 

nineteenth birthday.

i didn’t know how to

deal with the stress of something

that would last forever and ever.

my dad and a doctor and lots of denial

did nothing to stop it from

turning to concrete in my head.

the ringing of church bells

echoing through the streets of my

hometown bring me to my knees.

i used to cradle thick books

with plastic maroon covers

delicately in my hands

as i sang hymn after hymn.

i sang softly, because god forbid

i show myself off.

the ringing of my mother’s words

grate against the tender

membranes in my skull,

not like daggers but like dull razors

scratching away until blood is drawn.

she looks at me like a creature in a zoo.

she stops talking—at last!—

and hands me a band-aid,

but there’s a few extra words i wish she’d say.

the ring of the eclipse was invisible

to me that day. it was the last time

i saw my grandparents outside.

i mentioned the solar phenomenon

but neither of them had any interest

in looking up at the sky. i tried to take

a photo just for it to come out black. if only i 

could bring the ring down

and wear it on my finger to show them.

by: Amber Cherichetti