RINGS

I caught my wedding ring on the fence
climbing to retrieve my son’s ball
in a neighbor’s yard. It nearly
ripped my finger off.

My wife’s name was engraved inside
that ring by a jeweler
my wife’s cousin Neven knew in Zagreb.

Blood covered my hand, my arm—my finger
nearly severed as I desperately struggled
to release myself before I passed out.

The jeweler knew exactly how to spell
Kovacic but hadn’t a clue about my name,
Daniels. We got a laugh out of that.

Neven died in the war in Croatia
during the siege of Vukovar.
He was married to Yadrinka and had a young son,

Nanni who now stutters and watches too much
television. He lives in a land of bad
cartoons. His widow’s trapped in her

mother-in-law’s apartment with Nanni
and no money. Bad deal all around. We wander
the tiny rooms of Neven’s life, stepping over

Nanni’s decapitated dolls and angry scribbles.
My wedding ring was salvaged, a slight point
where it snagged. Where it could get snagged

again. Though we were not married, we wore
the rings in Zagreb so we would not lose them.
The family gave us cheap wedding presents to wedge

into our luggage because no one could afford
to make the trip for the wedding in Pittsburgh.
I bent the hands of the wall clock

and it never worked. I forgot about retrieving the ball.
I forget that Neven was my friend.

We sent wads of cash during the war
in multiple envelopes, hoping some of it
would get through. We’d bought the rings

because we’d changed too many dollars
into dinars, not knowing we couldn’t
change them back, not knowing

about the black market where the real money
was exchanged. In the cities, Yugoslavia
was one endless bad cigarette. In the country,

one long dusty black skirt. Tito was a feared
god and television made up partisan bios for the latest
hot politicos. Fairy tales from American rock

bands were imported like sacred tracks.
Us, we were buying gold back in her father’s
neighborhood. Gold circles with our names inscribed—

so we wouldn’t forget? Her history numbed me.
We held hands there like bitter teenagers, There,
forgetting was either an art form

or the biggest sin. Neven wouldn’t join
the party. He loved his dog Whiskey
with the wadded currency of his heart.

Tito’d made his grandfather disappear.
The world was full of black magic
and we were buying gold with dirty money

under a slanted sun and the shaded
ever-present portrait of Tito. My finger
doesn’t bend all the way anymore

though the ring still fits like an ugly glove.
I only hung from the fence for a few brief seconds
but Neven would have said it was all the time

in the world.

KILLING THE BUGS

My son needed to bring in six dead bugs
for a science project. We captured them
in tiny tupperware, believing they’d quickly

suffocate. I didn’t know how little they eat,
how little they breathe. The damn grasshopper
and cricket were the worst. I’d go out on

the back steps to check, lifting the containers
and suddenly they hop up and rattle against the lid.
I tried to drown the grasshopper. I guess it

took swimming lessons. I finally took a pin
and inflicted multiple stab wounds, turned
my head away. My son wanted to know why

they had to be dead in the first place. I’m not
your teacher, I snapped, my biggest lie yet.