Silver Ring

Zig-zagging around surrealist paintings that make temporal talk,

he is serpentine, hovering silver above a burgundy velour ottoman.

He wraps himself around your calf with a squeeze,

ensorcelled by the way you’ve removed a layer

meant to trap warmth when you need it most.

He was here before you and he’ll be here after.

The way the lights are dimmed in this room,

feels like reconstructed amber, tepid and dusk.

Your mica skin breaks into blotches that cluster

from a flimsy collarbone up to a shatterable blush.

His scales move to a harmonic minor

and you feel your form wanting to sway.

Rip these words out, weave them back

from end to beginning and understand:

You are a pickerel circling his dangling hook.

A toddler on a toboggan destined for dense forest.

Grasp this warning before you hear the gnathic stretch.

The unhinged scythes clamped around your frame.

He’ll gorge himself on devotion and leave nothing,

save your silver ring on a teacup saucer.