She wore a walnut on her finger; chunky gold,
fat with ice, rubies dotting it like morning-after
sheets at the Windjammer Motel. Twenty years
of frippery weighed her down, but it was his gift.

When it dulled, she swooshed it
in a bowl of shimmer until it glowed
like she did when she wore it well.
He would always be the one who loved her best,
the boy with bad taste in jewelry.

She sold it for cheap on a daring day,
crammed the cash into her wallet
and had her nipple pierced.
Neither hurt as much as she expected.

####

Lori Williams is a born and bred New Yorker, mother, daydreamer and sometimes a lost soul, all of which tend to be good fodder for poetry. She has been writing since her early teens, and could not stop if she tried.

Her work has been published in Neiderngasse, Prose Ax, Mind Caviar, and Dakota House Journal, among others, and is upcoming in Nectarzine, Thunder Sandwich and This Poetry Site.

Visit her websites, Theme of the Month Poetry, at http://loriwilliams.homestead.com/index.html