I carry it on my key chain, which itself
is a big brass ring
large enough for my wrist,
holding keys for safe-deposit box,
friends’ apartments,
my house, office and faithless car.

I would like to wear it,
the only ornament on my plain body,
but it is a relic,
the husband gone to other wives,
and it could never be a symbol of sharing,
but like the gold it’s made of, stands for possession, power,
the security of a throne.

So, on my key ring,
dull from resting in my dark purse,
it hangs, reminding me of failures, of beauty I once had,
of more ancient searches for an enchanted ring.

I understand, now, what that enchantment is, though.
It is being loved.
Or, conversely, loving so much that you feel loved.
And the ring hangs there
with my keys,
reminding of failure.

This vain head full of roses,
crystal,
bleeding lips,
a voice doomed to listen, forever,
to itself.