The Ring

The ring was
three times too small for a finger,
even a piece of string could not go through it!
So I asked her,
Woman, why have you sold or given me this ring?
Nunlike she bobbed her white head-scarf chastisingly,
black eyes, black under her eyes, she said,
Something is being taken away.
You must keep seeing: everything
must be turned to love that is not love.
Mother,
going in to death,
can you do it: love
something that was there that is being taken away.

Door in the Mountain: New & Collected Poems