by Anne Pinkerton

Platinum is heavy.
I liked that at first, a metal
that felt equal to the weight
of my commitment.
The pure color of silver, but rarer —
costing more. 

At first, I spent hours staring
at the newness, the astonishing luster,
the way my rings reflected light.
I figured anyone would be dazzled,
distracted by the symbol,
unable to look away, as I was.

My left hand hung just a bit heavier 
than the right. My fourth finger 
grew to accommodate its bondage,
a fat stack of shine. There, 
the sun never reached my skin,
and the crease between palm and digit 
grew, unnaturally wide.

After time, the bling went unnoticed —
by me, by others, had simply become 
part of my body, like a mole or a scar.

I am an air sign once anchored 
to an earth sign. 
The longer I was grounded,
the more I longed to float
away.
Now unadorned, 
I again have trouble looking away, 
mesmerized by the lightness of my hand — 
the naked, unencumbered flesh.

You might as well have thought 
I carried a barbell all that time.
Having released my grip
from what weighed me down,
my hand rises 
to the brightening sky.

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Anne Pinkerton studied poetry at Hampshire College and received an MFA in creative nonfiction from Bay Path University. Her writing often circles around grief, loss, illness, and coping with these painful realities in our lives. She has been published in Modern Loss, Hippocampus Magazine, Entropy, Ars Medica, Lunch Ticket, The Bark, and others. Find her online at AnnePinkertonWriter.com.

Photo by Humam