Clock Work

By: Kahill Perkins

Like clockwork revaluations to new forgotten ideas lined up in my mind like young adult novels on my ratty old grey bookcases, I live stories lined up in many different tenses    dog-eared identities taking place in crises fueled hourglass clocks, if there is one thing I’ll never run out of it is time
dust, I want to live forever because I never want to repeat this same life again, for I awake some midwinter mornings and so terribly recall that maybe this isn’t the first time I have been hurt or the first time I’ve lived
And that I have always taken forms
as a midwife
and a suffragette 
a doctor
a dying child
a cicada 
and as a young woman struggling to keep her head above bills and painful memories woken up by the clanging of a broken grandfather clock in a wooden paneled house in a long sought after memorial dream, taking myself back to a time when I wasn’t screaming in an era fueled by hate and sorrowful 
sick-minded men at the controls,
I want to paint flowers on to the faces of the white supremacists that govern, so that I could stand to look them in the face when I spit in their eyes,
I want to take back time
and live forever
so I don’t have to relive an era of pain
because I already have,
So many times before, 
and I am running shin deep in white snow and bloody shins, broken down to the bone showing white against the crimson pools in the spotless snow, fear and prospect coursing through my mind, my mouth filled with bile and the dust 
that I’ll never run out of
like time
and I feel as if
time’s up