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Lets say you, even though you know I
mean I, found this ring in your mother’s
closet in a shoe box of what mattered:
letters from the man she couldn’t marry,
pale blue ink on blue paper, bluesy
letters. Papers from the dog she would
never not long for. Then you see the ring,
Clara, etched on the 18 k gold. Do you
feel you’ve been shaken by a ghost tho
the name’s not familiar? Or maybe you
ask every living relative, most who won’t
be for long: Who is Clara? If I were you,
I’d write poems with that title, put the ring
in a safe deposit box. What would you
think, before a trip to Peru, getting a
letter that Clara Lazarus died without a
will? Would you try to track her down,
you with the ring in your drawer or lock
box? Go to the deaths in Wilmington
where all the Lazaruses lived? Lets say
you are leaving for Paris, not Peru and
the lawyers want you to sign. Wouldn’t
you like some family history? Something
about this woman whose ring in a room
you used to sleep in mystifies? In testate
they will tell you it takes so long,
how they will search Europe for more
relatives. Wouldn’t you want to
know more about this Clara whose
finger is close to the size of your own?
The family tree they wrap the check in is a
mess. Jesus, you knew more not even
hearing of Clara. When you go to
slide on the ring, as if to enter her life the
only way you can, the ring is missing. On
the one you thought it was, nothing is
etched inside. After months of re-checking
jewel boxes, banks, would you begin
to think her name could have dissolved?
If it had slid thru your fingers, would
you think it is elusive as a soul?

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Topics

• Pithy Tales
• Accounts & Glimpses
• Verse
• On Writing