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.