On Sundays, kneeling at the pew, I’d stare
into its changing depths, shifting the band
to catch the slanted light, head bowed in prayer
until my mother tugged at me to stand.
One day the ring was gone. I tore apart
my room, then asked St. Anthony to show
a sign: a glint of red, some hope to start
my hunt anew. I looked for weeks, but no…
Although some thirty years of loss have passed,
and I am rarely in a Catholic church,
I had a vision of the ring: it flashed
its ruby face and called on me to search
once more for something lost without a trace,
for something that can fill the empty space.

Potvin’s chapbook Sound Travels on Water is available from Finishing Line Press. Purchase it here.