The ribbon is tied around my index finger.
It throbs with trapped blood, ready to burst,
a finger-berry, a heart-digit with its own little pulse.
It gets redder and redder, grows quite hot.
I find it hard to sleep and roll around,
lying on it, sucking it, putting it under the pillow.
In the morning, I run it under the cold tap,
dunk it in my morning decaf;
butter and jam it, before I do my scone.
Perhaps I’ve tied it too tightly.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have done this alone.
‘It gets deeper and deeper,’ I tell my husband
on the phone. I don’t tell anyone that
I’ve forgotten what I’m supposed to remember.