by Randall Tyrone
The wall clocks’ faces have cracked,
all of them. The hands keep moving
but I only notice the crevice, deeper
than any measurement, marking the moment
I stopped being a fractured boy and
became a fragmented baby.
If my life were a mirror, then it has been
broken into pieces. Those pieces
broken even further down into shambles.
Those shambles have then been left
to stew. The environment turned torrid.
The stewing turned to simmering
and simmering devolved into boiling.
My shambles became molten with
each piece separated from one another.
The spaces between them are minuscule
but space is still space. Everything is now
too disintegrated to gather, but still
too well bonded to fade away naturally.
Yet, they’re too divided and too weak
to kill themselves. Now they’re forced to
depend on the kindness of others.
Yes, the hands keep pushing and each time
they skip, like my heart, jeered
by a suppressed memory’s revocation. Like
a heart recalling the time before the beating,
and my recalling that they all stop beating.