Poetry

80. consequential hands

a life-long obsession

This is how I follow the hand of the clock,
and the hand that swirls me (counter) clockwise,
to the music:

I let my body do the twists and turns,
the rigid ticks of one living
on the edge of their age,
where I can taste the night burn away my
tongue and thoughts alike.

He spins me faster,
yet
we are standing all the more
unmoved.

This is the one second that will last
a few seconds more,
until we collapse
into a heap of consequences.

When at two a.m. he says
there’s somewhere else he needs to be,
by three,
I’ll smash the clock on the bedroom floor.
Pretend to be the first person
to have stopped its hands
from going round.

I would never stop his hands, though.

In the morning, we’ll both forget
about the theft.
After I usher him out the door
it will take most of the day to mend my feet
(bloodied on the time I broke).

I will not wince, or cry.
Sweep the glass off the floor.
It’s a heap of consequences.
Nothing more.

 

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