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Kelley Jean White

 

Clocking


The four o’clock light threw a cleaver
between our houses. Your gray shoe
laces spelled our future in the wind.
The buzzing in my hair became a golden
trail of honey that I curled around
my tongue and breathed out as crushed
hyacinths–you smacked your lips
on each morsel of song. The Pigman
hung his banners beside the highway.
It was high noon. Your prophet brother’s
birthday on the mountaintop. Solid. His eyes
taught boulders, bravery held them open
in the glare. His wife says ‘you tripping,’
she says, ‘all that:’ the horsefaced
government, the eagle feathered with
glass. You kiss the postman, you dance
with the cops who come to question
your noise, we bow, Doc and ma’am,
clapping to welcome the blue lights,
they will carry us both to the ambulance,
we will be drawing our names on the walls
of the ER, its crippled clocks turned back
into dawn’s forgotten name, adios abuelita
tostados, the clock chewed your ear,
its fingers crossed behind its mocking
I waited to pour my honey into its clicking
mouth.

 

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