Her clock buffs down,
the thicker minutes. A dial, thin as onion peel
hangs broadside. We don’t see
its frail edge,
only a circle —
the shape of hour. There is no hand for depth.
Her body measures minutes
in volume.
The belly swells,
where kidneys rest above the bed, below the ribs.
Layering time into a sphere.
Nodules,
like grapes in April,
are a clutch of eggs by October. We wait for the yolks
to burst — her chest to slacken,
to sallow.
Lorrie Ness is a poet working in Virginia. Her work can be found at Palette Poetry, THRUSH Poetry Journal, Typishly and various other journals. She was twice nominated for a Best of the Net Award by Sky Island Journal. Her chapbook “Anatomy of a Wound” is published by Flowstone Press.
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