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