The low bungalow on Melville St has my wedding ring in there
somewhere. I slipped it off my finger, held it in my hand, and it
disappeared. It had three tiny diamonds and three tiny sapphires,
six my lucky number. Custom-made in an old store in downtown
Seattle. The most likely resting place was the planter box in the
backyard where I was trying to grow lettuce, where a black squirrel
would sit gorging on the tender leaves and leave nothing but the
stalks. A squirrel I captured in a metal cage with bait of cheese and
carrots. I found him trapped and terrified one day after work and
drove him to the hills, breaking the law with wildlife in the trunk,
and left him there amongst familiar trees but away from home and
kin. That ring was irreplaceable, so I did not try, bought a cheap
silver one that turns dark in the pool. When I see it changing color,
I think of that squirrel.
First appeared in Trampoline – A Journal of Poetry, March 2026