Snipping the Rings
By Paul Hostovsky
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
Standing in front of the garbage,
scissors in hand, sea turtles
in mind, my mother used to bow her head
over the plastic six-pack rings
and snip them before she threw them out.
It was a little like prayer, and a little
scissors in hand, sea turtles
in mind, my mother used to bow her head
over the plastic six-pack rings
and snip them before she threw them out.
It was a little like prayer, and a little
like sending in a contribution
to where it was sorely needed,
and a little like mailing a love letter,
imagining it finding its way to where
they lived and swam in that unfathomably
foreign, war-torn country.
to where it was sorely needed,
and a little like mailing a love letter,
imagining it finding its way to where
they lived and swam in that unfathomably
foreign, war-torn country.
My mother is dead now and the rings
are photodegradable these days—
they start disintegrating in just a few weeks.
Compared to fishing gear and other plastic waste
they’re just a minor contributor now
to marine life fatalities. And yet
are photodegradable these days—
they start disintegrating in just a few weeks.
Compared to fishing gear and other plastic waste
they’re just a minor contributor now
to marine life fatalities. And yet
here I stand in front of the garbage
snipping the rings like she did. When I’m done
it looks like a kind of sea creature itself,
pale and diaphanous, flappy appendages splayed
on top of the moldering garbage heap.
Some old habits die hard,
snipping the rings like she did. When I’m done
it looks like a kind of sea creature itself,
pale and diaphanous, flappy appendages splayed
on top of the moldering garbage heap.
Some old habits die hard,
like prayer, like letter writing, like
doing things in your kitchen that your mother
did in hers. And like the need to believe
your life can touch other lives
on the other side of the world. Lives that don’t
look like yours. Even lives that have passed from this world
but are still tied to yours. Linked to yours.
doing things in your kitchen that your mother
did in hers. And like the need to believe
your life can touch other lives
on the other side of the world. Lives that don’t
look like yours. Even lives that have passed from this world
but are still tied to yours. Linked to yours.
Paul Hostovsky’s poems have won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and the Comstock Review’s Muriel Craft Bailey Award. He has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Only Poems, and The Writer’s Almanac.
Website: paulhostovsky.com
Website: paulhostovsky.com
Author’s Note:
There’s that story of the mother cutting the ends off the fish (or the ham) because her mother did it and also her grandmother, but her grandmother only did it back in the day because her baking pan was too small to fit the whole fish (or ham). So there was no need to do it anymore. Could be there’s a bit of that in this poem. I found myself snipping the six-pack rings like I saw my mother do, even when there was no need for me to do it anymore. But then I kept on doing it anyway because, well... I wasn’t sure why. And I asked myself why. And thence the poem.