Circadia
Snow White stares into a clock,
the second hand tied to a
thread around her heart.
Time bleeds into the ether.
All she can do is stare it
down although it gives her a
crick in the neck and she
wonders if there might be
something out there in the
wide world that she
could be doing.
The minute hand sticks a
black dash and shudders.
Outside, the sun sets.
Blue scavenger,
red eyes in the shape of Oahu.
Feathers in a mohawk.
Spectacles.
He sees the white face.
Feels the itch in his talons.
He doesn’t like to break the code;
things die in their own time.
But it’s been a week.
He bursts through the window,
eyes in the shape of Italy.
She sees him in the clockface,
grips the nail file,
prepares to strike.
It’s going exactly to plan.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV
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