THE RING

The Ring

I bought it because my hands looked unfinished,

because silver means something to people who notice hands.

The jeweler said it would age beautifully.

I wanted people to forget I had fingers without it.

I practiced talking with my hands,

the way people do when they're certain,

the way I wasn't.

I couldn’t stop adjusting it

At the meeting, I left my hands on the table

knuckles up, like a small declaration.

No one mentioned it.

That meant they noticed.

Then one Thursday, I forgot to wear it

and still took up space at the table.

My hands still worked

The reassurance I was looking for

was never in the silver

Checkout Line

The woman in front of me is placing her groceries on the conveyor belt

while the cashier, maybe seventeen, hair up in a messy bun,

keeps her eyes on the register screen

The woman’s bag is canvas, reusable, expensive looking

and she's pulling out coupons from a shiny leather wallet,

each one unfolded carefully

The cashier’s shoulders go tight when she sees them,

I can’t tell if she's annoyed by the coupons, the extra work of scanning,

or if the woman said something while I was still choosing between checkout lines,

something about expired sales or wrong prices or the way things used to be done.

The woman probably said something about organic foods,

and how she always buys organic in this annoying voice,

using an uncomfortable amount of vocal fry and the word ‘like’

the cashier nods but doesn't look up. Maybe the cashier is tired of women like this,

women who need everyone to know about their stupidly expensive, pseudo-healthy

diet choices. The woman taps her credit card against her palm

one, two, three times while waiting for her items to ring up.

The rhythm says hurry up, says this is taking too long

I decide she's the type of person who thinks the cashier is incompetent,

too slow, not meeting whatever impossible standard she’s invented

for how quickly her organic quinoa should be scanned.

The cashier still won’t make eye contact

Good for her, I think. Don’t let this woman make you feel small.

The woman tilts her head, says something I can’t hear

the cashier pauses over a bunch of kale

The woman’s voice gets louder “I’m sure it was two-for one”

There it is. I knew it. She’s going to make a scene over 50 cents,

over needing it to be right, over needing this teenager to admit she knows better

The cashier calls for a price check and the woman crosses her arms.

I want to say, Just let it go, just pay the extra dollar and stop making her day harder,

stop needing to win.

But then the manager comes over and snaps something at the cashier,

not at the customer. The cashier's face goes red and she ducks her head.

The transaction ends. The woman takes her bags, glances back at the cashier, says,

"You're doing great,"

and leaves. The cashier exhales. I step forward with my items:

frozen meals for one, a can of soda,

the same kale I was so sure would be the problem.

I don't say anything. I swipe my card. She bags in silence.

Outside, I see the woman loading groceries into a sedan,

careful with each bag, and I realize I needed her

to be careless. Needed her to be the villain

of someone else's shift so I wouldn't have to think

about how I move through the world

which lines I hold up, whose patience I test,

who's been kind to me when I was too wrapped up

in my own small urgencies to notice I was being difficult.

The sedan pulls away. I stand there holding

my single bag, the receipt already crumpled in my hand.

Rubber Band

I’ve kept a single rubber band

Looped around my bedpost for 3 years

It’s gray now, rimmed with rings of dust and lint,

Stretched thin in places where my thumb

Kept worrying it during conversations

I didn’t want to have

It was there the night before my presentation

when I couldn't sleep, when I wrapped it

around my finger too tight

Counting how many seconds until

The tip of my finger turned white

It was there the morning I got the acceptance email

when I snapped it across the room

At the wall that heard me rehearse

the same hopes twenty times

It slid behind my bed

But I dug it out with a broom

because it belongs on my bedpost, not there

My younger cousin held it once

And I showed him how to weave it

between his fingers into a star

He wore it on his wrist for the rest of the day,

then set it down on my desk before he left

Like he knew I couldn’t lose it

Sometimes I think it’s waiting

to be used for something ordinary

bundling the stack of photos on my shelf,

keeping a crumpled page from escaping,

looped around a moment

I’ll need it later

Today I moved it from the bedpost to my pocket

It weighs almost nothing, but carries what I cannot

Katie Hong is a high school student based in Seoul, South Korea, whose love for poetry is surpassed only by her passion for baking and spending time with her puppy, Loki. With a gift for words and a keen eye for detail, Katie weaves intricate tapestries of emotion and imagery in her poetry, inviting readers to embark on self-discovery and introspection. When she's not immersed in the world of poetry, Katie can be found in the kitchen, experimenting with flavors and textures to create delicious treats that delight the senses. With a zest for life and a boundless imagination, Katie is committed to sharing her voice with the world and making a meaningful impact through her writing.