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The Clock
The Clock
I used to press my lips together,
Tighter than a tomb in the glimmering mirror,
In a house cinnamon-warm forever,
No one could ever fear her.
To make it perfect, that shade of crimson red
A Goldilocks tale just-right.
She had to lift me up then,
Because I never reached her height.
From the time I could love,
I tapped my head on her knees,
She was the only one, who no matter what,
Truly believed in faeries.
Every third evening at twelve
She wound the gears
Of the three grandfather bells
Chiming silver whisper clear
Every morning she woke like this,
Like a cadet off to the front lines,
To a tiny kitchen now a memory of mist
To bake a river of apple pies
Every day at 11, New York time,
She’d sway to a beat-up radio,
Bathed in golden light
Like she was off at a Broadway show.
So she wound the clock
And for a moment then time stopped
So she tended the lawn
So she’d never be gone
So I wouldn’t lose my rock,
So the key twisted in the lock
So the world shone with gloss
So I would never be lost
Now, I stand tall, alone never
In a pane of polished glass,
And crush my lips together
Wishing I knew how to make it last,
This last hurdle, last trial,
Crossing of a rumbling wooden bridge,
Taking with it my final
Hope of a magical wish
This lifeblood red that I pray won’t run out,
A stream that won’t stop,
As it strikes eleven twenty seven now,
On the grandfather clock
She started dancing slowly at two,
Winding the clock at ten to four.
We were all blind fools,
Ignoring stray gray hairs on tiled floors
So she set aside every patient loom
Of needlework and crocheting,
She set aside her Sunday crossword in gloom,
Because now the pen was shaking
Every morning then, I sat next to her,
Chuckling about unimportant things,
My hands filled in that crossword,
As we spoke about wishing we had wings
So I wind the clock,
Although time has stopped
So I live past dawn,
Although it all feels wrong
So a line’s been crossed,
So she’s lost, she’s lost,
So it’s been so long,
So she says, “Go on, my dear, go on.”
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This is a poem about the tiny facets of grief that most people don't discuss and the incredibly specific eccentricities of people that make them human