They counted up the cavities burrowed

into my skull. Black holes flashed in relief

that they could turn to liquid gold because

my children hollowed out the grooves both from

within and outside of the womb—about

a half a dozen each. They lost no time

in taking all they needed all at once,

in rounding out my hips to rest their feet.

They carved a shriek inside my raw, bruised lungs

before releasing it inside my mouth.

These days, I wear the ring your children bought

the year you added “Widow” to your name—

five birthstones etched into a plate of gold,

my mother’s at the end, translucent pink.

My daughter, named for you, now plays with it

when sleep seems like a cruel trick meant to leave

her in the dark. Her fingers trace the jewels

as small as baby teeth. We turn the screams

into a song as lost hymns turn out to

be found. I whisper, “This is yours to keep.”