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
The belly swells,
where kidneys rest above the bed, below the ribs.
Layering time into a sphere.
like grapes in April,
are a clutch of eggs by October. We wait for the yolks
to burst — her chest to slacken,
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.