for my mother, María Esther  

My mother used to tell us about a stolen ring

it was summer
at a public pool
at the end of an endless bus ride

my brother and I would follow her
into a wooden shack she called 
the locker room and undress among women’s
stares that made us feel like aliens

but the story said nothing of long distances
run-down bungalows
or the moss
establishing its capital at the bottom of the pool

The story would go on about the ring
how she left it on the bench
and how that woman took it but denied it

how the police did nothing
and the woman walked away
slowly
victorious
my mother’s cheeks glistening with rage

My mother told us many,
many times, as if there was something 
hidden in the story 
that none of us ever deciphered
that someone at last might hear 
and relieve her from retelling it

My mother carried trust like an obligation
like pale skin around her finger
like a ring.