We chose rings of braided gold,
mine red, yours white.
Your sister filled our honeymoon suite
with yellow roses.
When we rumpled the sheets,
I twisted the ring on your finger.
You laughed and said
it felt like I was adjusting your settings.
It was fetish-wear for me,
kindling more lust
than any slipped sheet bend
around my ankle or wrist.
In the rose- and -sex-scented morning,
I found you bent over a sheet of paper,
diagramming your ring.
"Three strands! Fourteen crossings!"
With a topologist's glee,
you mapped the gold intersections.
I laughed at you until you
rose and joined me in the bed.
Like a Dark Age Irish scribe,
bent over his book of knots,
you drew me out
and illuminated me.
(previously published in Red Rock Review)