Sonnet for my Grandmother's Wedding Ring

by Megan Neville

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In the dream I’m a migrating bird halted

dead in flight, swallowed and spat from a

familiar reflection. Ring finger escaping

my lurid mouth, I awaken to an intrusion

in my throat, static crackling in my chest.

I couldn’t have – I did – I’ve consumed

it before it can devour me. Laughing,

Vishuddha mutters something about truth-

telling, about self-expression, about the

color blue. Choke, vomit, or let metallic

poison leech into quivering viscera? I gag.

I hack. No use. Institution internalized:

it is part of me now. At least I once had

a coal-hot choice she was never allowed.