Sonnet for My Grandmother’s Wedding Ring

In the dream I’m a migrating bird halteddead in flight, swallowed and spat from afamiliar reflection. Ring finger escapingmy lurid mouth, I awaken to an intrusionin my throat, static crackling in my chest.I couldn’t have – I did – I’ve consumedit before it can devour me. Laughing,Vishuddha mutters something about truth-telling, about self-expression, about thecolor blue. Choke, vomit, or let metallicpoison leech into quivering viscera? I gag.I hack. No use. Institution internalized:it is part of me now. At least I once hada coal-hot choice she was never allowed.