had sat through weeks of gruesome repetition,
which they calmly talked me through.
I guess eventually the words detach – become sayable –
matter of fact.
Were new to me, though –
those words, those things they told me, and the images
they conjured clung to me –
Not mine to feel, Ava,
yet feel I did.
It’s like Boatswain’s Clench had been emptying me for
weeks, just so it could pour that in –
sudden company
sweetness, sadness, horror and a red wine fuzz,
throat tight with their words, nodding.
That night I saw a clock for the first time since
childhood.
Darling… darling…
Or did I dream I saw it?
It’s so strange to be a child and fear time,
don’t you think, Ava?
Of all the visions,
it was the clocks that most disturbed me –
not the train which felt inevitable,
not the ceiling coming gently down,
the clocks –
vivid in the dark, they’d rush and lag and stretch
the night as though to say,
no amount of counting, portioning, measuring will
help you here –
all this cannot be quantified
will not be stopped.
The B&B was boiling hot.
The radiator had rebelled against the thermostat.
I touched it, burned my hand.
I threw the big sash window open –
cold air, white horse.
I could hear the father talking
through the window to his daughter.
It was low and tender.
Intensely private.
