Madeline Brzeczek
Step one, slip it on my finger.
Beginning of a routine,
the daily comfort of monotony.
Summer’s sweaty noose
cutting off my index finger.
A damp, pale scar is left
on my reddened flesh.
One band hugs my skin,
the other rotates freely.
I twist it with my thumb.
A safety rope, an iron life preserver
keeping me afloat in
a sea of unease.
A chilled piece of metal
branding my chest.
It reads, “Prone to panic attacks.”
It could be my wedding band,
a marriage between
me and my own dread.
Put it on a chain,
like a promise to a dead spouse.
Little do they know,
it’s just the wrong size.
I hold it to my mouth,
like a cold kiss to
soothe nerve-bitten lips.
Spinning like a carousel,
or a steel ballerina
wrapped around my finger.
Her dance keeps me calm.