Still There in Certain Light

Found the tablecloth again this morning,

bottom of the pile, the way things stay.

Six times I've washed it since the dinner party.

Seven. Counting is a form of delay.

The stain was wine. Two Novembers ago.

Somebody's elbow, nobody to blame.

The cloth was a housewarming gift. I held it

to the window and there it came —

the ring. Pale now. Less red. More like a shadow

of the color it was. You have to know

to look, to hold it at the right angle.

I've tried the methods. Tried to let it go.

It comes back every time. Someone laughed loud

that night — startled everyone including them —

at something I've since lost. The bottles open.

The cloth was new. The ring remembers when.