T.R. Hummer
March 2002

Ring Cycle


At the crematorium, the story goes, they gave him
     the ring he had bought for her,
White gold with constellations of tiny diamonds,
     a row of square-cut sapphires
In a black hole at its core. What would he do

     with it now? At home he opened the urn,
Dumped the ashes on the kitchen table, buried
     the ring at the place where he set
Her plate so many mornings — all gone up
     in a greasy smoke now, into

The disinterested abstraction of sky.
     When they cooked together, she loved
Complex flavors, Oaxacan moles with roasted tomatillos,
     deep ragouts of winter roots, cardamom, dark sauce
With garam masala. Often when he thought of her,

     it was as a visible aroma of ground
Coriander and allspice. He touched the stove,
     touched the iron pans on their hooks,
The sieve, baker’s peel, baking stone. He brought down
     bottles from cabinets, bundles of dried herbs

From the pantry, fresh ones from the crisper drawer.
     He dumped everything on top of the ashes.
With her scarred wooden spoon, patiently, he stirred
     white peppercorns, turmeric, rosemary,
Spanish saffron, blending carefully with carbon,

     teeth, and the irreducible bits of bone —
Then took it up in double handfuls, threw it
     into the ceiling fan, closing his eyes, breathing.
It’s like all your stories, she said then, giving him
     her characteristic sidelong smirk:

Sentimental and thin. You’re absolutely right,
     he answered, as usual, blinking at the nebulous
Sparkle on her finger while he sat
     finally down beside her the way
He always did, taking the proper fork.

from Useless Virtues, LSU Press, 2001.