bury the ring

i made an "o" with my mouth
& cut off my lips.
there are rings everywhere. there are
rings around the apartment
& rings i sleep inside of.
the last time you called 
all my hair fell out 
on the kitchen floor. i wept
as i harvested it. we wore the matching rings
all year. a little portal between hands.
sometimes i would wake up 
with yours. your hands like 
wild birds, leading me throughout
the town in search 
of a wedding. no one was getting married.
everyone was having funerals
for their hungers. burying teeth 
inside tiny caskets. calling exes 
& meeting on the bridge 
over the lehigh river. tossing their tongues
into the water. i wanted to join them somehow.
your hands wanted white.
white dresses & white suns. it was a tuesday afternoon
when my lungs told me,
"we have to go." my hands were not yours
anymore. they were mine. two twin nests. 
i wish you could have seen 
the tree i found to bury the ring. 
it was a grove really. three young cedars.
they held hands & i told them
"i can't go through this threshold anymore."
they took the door & undid it. 
i wanted to call you but there was 
no air & my mouth was fully of feathers.
the trees told me before i left,
"you will never see us again."
frantic i almost tried to dig the ring up.
when i say you have to burry 
the ring i mean this. i mean living through 
the goneness. tell me though,
just this once. where did my hands 
take you when they arrived? 
i hope they were kind to you. i hope
they showed you dandelions & gold.