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.
