Friday, February 5, 2021

Clock with Reverse Gears by Jim Whiteside

Clock with Reverse Gears

 
I’m ten and jumping
out of the pool
 
onto the concrete, wet
only with sweat, walking
 
back to the machine
that reassembles the lawn
 
one blade at a time.
Birds call out with songs
 
that quickly retreat
to their lungs.
 
Your body is made
whole again, the flames
 
returning flesh to bone.
I have a father
 
and then, suddenly,
I don’t. This is
 
the part that doesn’t
change back.
 
In the field where
we bury you,
 
the bag with your ashes
never empties—
 
the hole overflows
while I stand there
 
waiting for your voice
to come through
 
the wind. Every fish
you ever caught
 
re-embodies, spits out
the bait and swims
 
away, while I sit
in a dark room
 
wearing your bathrobe,
watching your hand
 
reaching around
the doorframe
 
to switch the light off
and on, off and on,
 
until the bulb blows out.





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