Sonnet for my Grandmother's Wedding Ring
by Megan Neville
In the dream I’m a migrating bird halted
dead in flight, swallowed and spat from a
familiar reflection. Ring finger escaping
my lurid mouth, I awaken to an intrusion
in my throat, static crackling in my chest.
I couldn’t have – I did – I’ve consumed
it before it can devour me. Laughing,
Vishuddha mutters something about truth-
telling, about self-expression, about the
color blue. Choke, vomit, or let metallic
poison leech into quivering viscera? I gag.
I hack. No use. Institution internalized:
it is part of me now. At least I once had
a coal-hot choice she was never allowed.
Megan Neville is based in Cleveland, Ohio, where she teaches English and stares longingly at stacks of unread books that always have to wait until summer break. Her work has been published by or is forthcoming in English Journal, Belt Magazine, Whiskey Island, Barren Magazine, Tilde, Moonchild Magazine, Into the Void, and others. She tweets @MegNev.