Polish Flint

The perfect ring I had married myself with

(Of Polish flint) was pried apart as I fell.

In slow motion, it seemed, surrounded

By tourists, with enough time to think

Of everything: the sun, the river

Where dolphins swim, and under us the slick

Trolley rail and the loose patch of historical

Cobbles. We shattered a vape cartridge 

As we skidded, that makes it modern,

The smell of bubblegum or cotton candy arose

Like blood. I have crushed my wife!

You mentally screamed, in front of me,

But I had grown enormous with that feeling,

Instant, of knowing you are alive and intact.

My ring of Polish flint somehow took

The whole weight. A wall of silver to bear it all.

The hypnotizing picture in it was of dunes

Of sand, empty of people, stretching warm

And infinite. The whole thing must have looked

Worse than it was. A man across the street

Raced over to help, I leapt up, crazed 

With adrenaline, laughing like a hyena,

And for some reason shook his outstretched 

Hand. What had tumbled from the basket

Were books of poetry: Stevie Smith,

Tove Ditlevsen, and the new Kim Hyesoon.

The fresh black notebook was bent in half.

The heavy ring we had just bought you 

At the teashop remained intact, with its

Crystal pocket and red mazes, and still

Fit your third left finger. Two choices,

Always: two loose or two tight.

But the polished ring of Polish flint ...

Is the stone hurt? You asked, kissing

My elbow. Oh no, it is of a marvelous

Hardness. It is used to tipping arrows,

It can take the falling, falling.

The weight of two people 

And a bicycle built for two.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, 

You kept repeating, but I was happy.

There were some shining mistakes

In it that only I could see. I was even

In my Easter dress, like someone who

Confesses, like someone who would say

He is risen indeed. A visitor who would go

Back to where he came from, with a story

Of these strange inhabitants, leaping up,

Laughing, unhurt like the famous fountain

Where everyone in love poses for the same picture.

Polish flint, perfect stillness, and alone in the world.