The Clock

I have a clock
next to by my bed.

Every night

it keeps me awake.

unceasing stilettos on slate

It reminds me
of you

and my last trip

to the top

of  

those

narrow

stairs

to your matchbox room,

warm enough to hatch chicks.

You wanted water

or maybe another blanket

or maybe just to know what time it was,

because I looked at that clock,

and I hated it.

taunting tapping on tiny legs

No need to say,

no clock was ever so melancholy

or so succinctly reminded one

of the measured, meticulous march of the minutes,

the hours,

the days,

the months.

It ticked and clicked  

more loudly than ever need be

and haunted my creaking climb to you

punctuating pain with perfect precision

And there you lay,

unmoving,

a crepe-paper doll,

cold,

cocooned within the quiet of quilts.

I could never understand why you kept that clock,

how in that cloistered room

time could have any meaning .

The silence between the seconds was life
         holding its breath,

the narrative of a house dying.         

It had been a home

that made up the mystery of my mother’s life.

And now it was an old house

with a clock,

and a death,

that took more time than ever need be.

I was twelve years old,

yet at the top of the stair,

I wished I were younger

and could creep, courageous,

into the camphor rooms as I once did

and slide my fingers across
the forbidden bric -o- brac of your life.

The secrecy of knick-knacks and dust.

But I was afraid

that if I lingered a little longer

the clock would stop.

I wanted to tell you I loved you.

But I did not.