When my grandmother died, three rings
formed around my mom’s fingers.
First, India, where the gold-leafed elephants
and relatives were, kept calling.
Second, at the wake, a small bit of smoke
released from my father’s left eye and the
lifelessness in the coffin was pretty
shocking to everyone.
Third, in her bedroom was a large mirror
that, if you found a hidden latch,
could be opened as the door to a shallow
cabinet. What is this wrapping quality
in rings, she asked, or in adornment
instead of a coming back to itself?
Then, in Milford, we all ate dinner by
the shore and walked.
Then, the house emptied and Rhea
and I went off to college.
Someone we knew must have broken in.
Otherwise, how would they have gotten
past the alarm system? It was years
later over the phone. I had never heard
her speak in that voice.
They took my rings, she said.
First, India, where some branches peak
out over the foliage. Second,
an overriding tactility that would
devastate any religious woman.
Third, her mother as herself.
What am I going to do without them,
she asked. I couldn’t hear her
all that well. It turned out the color
of the sky came from the ocean.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 6.
Daniel Kuriakose is from Connecticut. He’s 25, lives in Brooklyn and studies at Brooklyn College.
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