I lost my first
wedding ring
soon after we married,
floating on inner tubes
coupled together,
drinking ice-cold
beer in the sun.
A flash of gold
and it was gone.
I lost the boots
my father wore
in Vietnam
and the first
pocketknife
I ever owned.
I lost my brother
even though he
wasn’t mine to lose.
I lost my way in college,
month after month,
watching mountain
birds turn wide circles
above rough canyons,
heavy snow smothering
the foothills and switchbacks.
I lost track of time but
found my father’s gun.
Winter will always
sound like the whir
of a cylinder spun in
an unfurnished room.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
I lost my first
wedding ring
soon after we married,
floating on inner tubes
coupled together,
drinking ice-cold
beer in the sun.
A flash of gold
and it was gone.
I lost the boots
my father wore
in Vietnam
and the first
pocketknife
I ever owned.
I lost my brother
even though he
wasn’t mine to lose.
I lost my way in college,
month after month,
watching mountain
birds turn wide circles
above rough canyons,
heavy snow smothering
the foothills and switchbacks.
I lost track of time but
found my father’s gun.
Winter will always
sound like the whir
of a cylinder spun in
an unfurnished room.
