Once too tight
now it swivels on
her bony finger.
Only her knuckles
bulge.  I can't
do it, my mother
says, a shriveled
bird in the stark
hospital bed.  When
I saw the dead bird
in Morristown I
felt it was a sign.
In two weeks my
mother's mouth
is so dry it curls
as if full of wild
feathers.  The ring
glitters, spits
out a yellow light,
not anywhere near
as pure as the
myth of its per-
fection my mother
spun of it like
whatever else 
pleased her,
like me