Sonnet for My Grandmother’s Wedding Ring

In the dream I’m a migrating bird halted
dead in flight, swallowed and spat from a
familiar reflection. Ring finger escaping
my lurid mouth, I awaken to an intrusion
in my throat, static crackling in my chest.
I couldn’t have – I did – I’ve consumed
it before it can devour me. Laughing,
Vishuddha mutters something about truth-
telling, about self-expression, about the
color blue. Choke, vomit, or let metallic
poison leech into quivering viscera? I gag.
I hack. No use. Institution internalized:
it is part of me now. At least I once had
a coal-hot choice she was never allowed.