Wearing One Earring

A.J. Huffman

Sleepless and thinking of Van Gogh
I take my left earring out.
Placing it inside a box
to send to a love that does not
exist. Yet or ever. Probably
an empty gesture full of
meaning[ful psychoses] even I
don’t understand. Yet
I take my time. Wrapping
the parchment with pristine
corners any hospital would envy.
I even wavered momentarily
over the choice of ribbon, wondering
if it still qualifies as a present if tied
with breast-cancer-pink allusions
to suffering. No, this is serious
[ly symbolic if not just a tad imbecilic]
so I selected silver. Knotted.
Knightly. Even moderately merry.
And its glint was worth the fuss.
It focused the moon as it soared
from my balcony to the river
below. Beyond, I was able to trace
its trail as it soaked, swirled,
then sank. In a flameless
mocking of some ancient and
regal funeral. All light.
All sorrow. All honor.
All gone. As it settles itself
among the silt.

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