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Sep 2013
I wait for our clocks to run out
for you to open the last door left
and turn to run, because
I want-need-have-hope too much.
You’re all gnashing teeth and curt words.
Whole canid, hackles raised, throat full
of gravel.
Keeping mark and claim
around wrist and throat.
I hear our time ticking in my chest;
“Hush, hush,” you say, “it’s not a countdown.”
But I feel notches along each rib
Where tiny clocks keep time of us.
So, I grasp your arms and pull
hoping you’ll jump in and wind them
at my breastbone before
the world rips you back out
and every one chimes
on me.
Written by
sisterlegionnaire
409
 
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