The Inner Workings of a Clock

The Inner Workings of a Clock My Catholic schoolgirl Denies my shadowy persona. Costumed in A navy blue uniform A snow-white blouse, A chest pocket embroidered By Saint John Fisher, Her youthful bearing ticks Smoothly, quietly, piously. My Catholic schoolgirl leads The May Day procession She crosses herself and genuflects. Wrapped in rosary beads, She pushes my golden orb, Tilted and warped as it is, Into its preordained trajectory Toward saintliness. Starships of jealousy and greed Some dressed as childish lies Others as adult deceptions Pitch me into a blackness Unnoticed by my angelic clock. Hands circulate 360 degrees. Springs unwind. Inner pendulums Swing madly. Simultaneously, I am Remorseful and gleeful. Twelve o’clock is My imagined sanctity of Honeyed knowledge. Six o’clock is My known blasphemy. I wear my hair shirt with pride. Tortoiselike, I see only Darkness or light. My Catholic Schoolgirl’s soul Refuses to apologize For my humanity Nor does she brag. I am God’s creation, A jigsaw of sharp-edged pieces.