THE RING FINGER

The firing pin was in my wallet as I cleaned the gun.
The dull gray metal object lay heavy in my small hands.
It was an old gun.
I polished it tenderly,
As if it were a cherished tarnished silver goblet.

My demented drunk husband lurched toward me.
Bang! The explosion was deafening.
When was the firing pin replaced?
Amazing, my wedding ring and finger were gone.

Even in terror I couldn’t hurt him.
The window ran red from the remaining stump.
The dogs lapped up the scarlet, spurting, splattering blood.
My husband just turned and walked away.

© Mama Joy
Spring 2001