Your aunt made
a ceramic bowl
and painted it
blue and black.
It’s edges were rough
and uneven but it
still held whatever we
put in it no
matter the smallness of
the thing. I look inside
now and see two rings.
Two rings. They sit and
collide on smooth cold
edges,
frictionless metal, soft
and ungilded.
No longer guilted
on thinned
fingers.
