by Michael Chowning, 18
And so I do not burn/ with the seasons’ turnings,/ but know how to suffocate an hour/ into daybreak/ and then still it.
I deal with shame/ in terms of echo-/ a voice trapped/ in 22/ leaking into the blue light./ Not a step taken/ in years and yet/ I look down/ on the burning village,/ the path back down/ erasing from view.
I can tell you that/ bodies shadow what’s left/ of the day/ as they move on,/ that the hand sharpened/ cannot be dulled/ and thus must be gentle.
They talk of stillness/ like stagnant air breeds malnourishment-/ the tree drilled into eternity/ and yet green forever.
Wash away the color/ and tell me your body/ knows its next step./ The idea of tomorrow/ a concept of stars,/ a moment a trick/ of the light.
Measure the matter/ of breath and report/ your findings./ No arrows guiding/ the hunter to prey,/ and yet we insist.
At what point are dreams/ overkill to the fox,/ retreated into burrows/ we do not know.
When is enough/ enough? The Saturday music being metal/ to a baby’s ears-/ he does not know the sound/ of the sparrow,/ but here is the knife/ and where to put it.
I see your playbooks,/ your deadlines and bells./ I raise you a man trapped/ in the hole he carved himself/ to tomorrow-/ the time simply not enough.
Do not whittle/ the hour down/ into what you make of it./ The air defined already,/ your purpose distorting/ its existence.
Make the body/ a product and see/ the landscape weep./ How kind to live/ for the price of nothing/ and know it’s enough./ Ask me of worthiness/ and watch me pry open/ your breastbone,/ like the doors/ of a bank vault,/ and reveal the proof.
To understand life,/ understand where to put/ your hands./ Hold a blade long enough/ and watch the edges sharpen./ Grasp the year’s profit/ and become a number/ to be read by the Gods.
Sat in the field,/ a man waits-/ three pools surrounding him-/ for the right season./ Eventually, knee deep, he realizes/ that it was him/ all along.
Ocean Township, New Jersey
Reader’s note: How to Read a Clock has beautiful imagery, reflecting on nature (sparrow, green, field) that contrasts the dire quality of the poem. I also enjoyed the slash as it relates back to the clock hands and also the blade. It shows a duality with the positive passage of time, but also the demise at the end of the poem, making readers reflect on the impact of both the positive and negative in life. I’ve never seen something like this before and I was really fascinated by this poem!
Bridge Ink 