she’s sitting
on the other side of the couch,
eyes on the clock. watching it tick slowly, taking it in
like the constant taste of the cat-o’-nine-tails;
with the want to skilder another life
from death.

i see her
at mordecai’s grave, with an expectation to turn the time;
hoping he’d tell the dead king that
a jewess’ still trapped in the past, [the month adar];
& wishing the fog of war clears from her head.

it’s a pity she can only turn back time
with memories; but
one could breathe in the peaceful journey of a future,
with death.