on my ring, i can tell where the old diamond was. it fell some time in december, perhaps tempted by other, better grounds—ones not confined by the movements of my finger. now it lives on in the company of lost things. i can tell where the old diamond was, and where the new diamond is. there is a slight imperfection that does not escape the eye, the flicker of a dent, an exchange or a passage. when i look down at my ring, i know. i see it.
the other day, a young woman in class looked at my exposed arm, inspected the curves in the ink.
“what does it mean?”
it means what it means, i told her, though not in those words.
she fixated on the gap. “aren’t you scared that it might bring you bad luck?”
i looked down at my arm, grazed the line with my finger, circling, then stopping.
the gap stands out, the same way a four-leaf clover would stand out in a field of green.
i know. i see it. it is neither a gift nor an affliction.