Her fingers curl.
Gently, at first.
A child laughs.
And the wind chimes,
the bird’s coo–
they laugh with her, too.
Her fingers curl.
Tighter.
The asphyxia is new.
The sacks of bones,
–so bold, weren’t we?–
white heads, the wrinkles,
the ill memories–
Her fingers curl.
And she keeps laughing,
without us, too.
This poem depicts Time as a vicious woman. Just like we never seem aware of the importance of time as children, the poem begins with the woman grabbing the neck of an oblivious child. Once the woman's grip is tighter, the child becomes aware of time, and the idea of aging causes the child to lose laughter, and to feel suffocated.