Ring

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Ring

By Lyn Lifshin

Let's say you, even though you know I

mean I, found this ring in your mother's

closet in a shoe box of what mattered:

letters from the man she couldn't marry,

pale blue ink on blue paper, bluesy

letters. Papers from the dog she would

never not long for. Then you see the ring,

Clara,

etched on the 18 carat gold. Do you

feel you've been shaken by a ghost tho

the name's not familiar? Or maybe you

ask every living relative, most who won't

be for long:

Who is Clara?

If I were you,

I'd write poems with that title, put the ring

in a safe deposit box. What would you

think, before a trip to Peru, getting a

letter that Clara Lazarus died without a

will? Would you try to track her down,

you with the ring in your drawer or lock

box? Go to the deaths in Wilmington

where all the Lazaruses lived? Lets say

you are leaving for Paris, not Peru and

the lawyers want you to sign. Wouldn't

you like some family history? Something

about this woman whose ring in a room

you used to sleep in mystifies? In testate

they will tell you it takes so long,

how they will search Europe for more

relatives. Wouldn't you want to

know more about this Clara whose

finger is close to the size of your own?

The family tree they wrap the check in is a

mess. Jesus, you knew more not even

hearing of Clara. When you go to

slide on the ring, as if to enter her life the

only way you can, the ring is missing. On

the one you thought it was, nothing is

etched inside. After months of re-checking

jewel boxes, banks, would you begin

to think her name could have dissolved?

If it had slid thru your fingers, would

you think it is elusive as a soul?