The Liberal
About UsSubscribeAdvertising
Current IssueEditor's LetterPoetryPoliticsArts & CultureReviewsCampaignsBack IssuesBookshopBlogPodcastLiberal EventsFacebook

Almandine

Although she married twelve years after Keats died, Fanny Brawne wore the engagement ring he gave her until her death.

Since Louis hasn’t asked, I have
not told. I am discreet —
I clean it only when alone,
rubbing the boxy beet

red stone into a dark mirror.
Some law prohibits this:
on the left hand, a wedding band;
the right’s ring a promise

unfulfilled. Married, I am still
engaged. I did not choose.
Or that is not a ring there, but
the past’s persisting bruise.

Carrie Etter

< Previous | Poem 5 of 7 | Next >
Post this poem to:   Del.icio.us | Digg | Facebook | NowPublic | Reddit