What Time Is It?
WHAT TIME IS IT?
A shadow crosses my mind
And stops.
An old familiar figure
Sent to me in this place
From memories
Long ago forgotten.
A lonely basket
Of a girl with no age
In a room crying the long,
Hollow tears of some
Deep and dolorous sorrow.
Infinite and wide —
A million years of
Reflections of relics —
Stone slab burdens
Rush at me, draw me.
I go to her and touch her sleeve.
Deliberate, slow —
She turns to reveal me a face
And I’m slammed and assaulted;
Helpless to know my
Barest mirror.
A contorting face,
Dizzying in its madman
Slide show of pains,
Featured frame after frame
Of hurts hooked to hurt
Played on a wall
Whose eyes streamed
Rivers of tears.
Too much, too much —
It held me idiot captive, a
Helpless prisoner of her face.
Feet hammered and secured
By Christ stakes,
I stood root of the earth —
A neglected garden’s
Tough old abandoned beet.
Weighing of Everest rock times three.
Knowing the tears,
I lived again each memory
Through her face,
Becoming carrier and bearer
As they wormed back inside,
Claiming me owner and
Demanding response.
The eyes lost me
And absorbed me:
They swallowed me up inside,
Jolting God-strong currents of scare
Straight through me —
Their wide sadness of hope
Too needy of reassurance.
Tethering sour screams within me,
I set to take leave of this place —
Longing to be star once more
Of my ten-thousand scenes,
Performer again in safe, cloaked
And hooded acts called Normalcy.
I left her as she was,
Gifting no promise or pact —
My own eyes closed to her difference —
I moved to go back to my theater,
Running far, far away.
Copyright © Suzanne Arbil | Year Posted 2023
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