Bathed in a red light,
I am sitting on the bathroom floor
in a house that used to be your home.
I wear your ring on a fine chain around my neck.
On my finger, I wear another ring
to remind me to find my own home.
They think I am married.
Sitting on the bathroom floor
in what used to be our home,
I wear the ring you designed on a chain around my neck.
The old Pueblo man gave me the ring on my finger,
and I wear it to remind myself
that I must leave this place, and return home.
You are not yet re-married.
In one of the many houses I used to call home,
I partake as she used to: your love for her
on a fine chain around my neck: my love for the past
and hopes for the future encircling my finger
like a wedding band (from a dead Pueblo man),
while thoughts of a home abated still linger.
She is no longer married.
A year ago (tomorrow, tomorrow), the end of the world began.
I was laid bare (by my own hand), and we spent the Last Night together.
When the New Year began, so too did We-- and there was talk
of rings on fingers. I was making my way to a home in the future;
and yet: here I sit, chain around my neck,
on cold tiles: some poor soul's former home.
I think I have arrived; I think I am married.
(You have never seen me in my red light.)
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