Her Wedding Ring

I clench my muscles.
With squelch and grunt
it clangs,
circling into the bowl.
Crouching on cool bathroom
tiles, I dip my arm into dull
yellow water, hold it in my hand
for a moment, remember
your fingers slipping and curling
into me. I towel off the ring

and place it in an envelope,
which I leave in your letterbox.

An hour later your texts: HE KNOWS
HE FUCKING KNOWS
and I imagine your fingers
sliding against the tears
that splatter your phone screen.

This poem was first published in Woolf Pack issue #7. You can buy the issue here.