When I lost my wedding ring,
I took issue with the verb “to lose.”
Its implied intent mocked me–
As if I were an active participant.
The noun “loser” quietly ridiculed me
–a loser of rings–
the name-calling was getting personal.
This was how
people who have affairs felt,
minus the thrill—just the guilt.
I wallowed in my faux infidelity,
revisited imaginary motel rooms,
(long abandoned by my phantom lover).
There it was, my shiny ring,
a clean circle on a dusty dresser.
My husband, always the pragmatist,
in an epic act of solidarity,
Lost his own ring while swimming
Natasha Garrett writes poetry and personal essays, and occasionally translates. Originally from Macedonia, she lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and works at La Roche College. Her work has been published in Mothers Always Write, Transnational Literature, Arts and Letters and Christian Century. Her book Motherlands was released in 2018.