Time Flies Anxiety

by Sherry Bollero

Time Flies Anxiety

Last night I opened the door

and the hours poured out       floating away.

Some were hit by

planes stalking prey overhead. I bundled the saved

minutes in my arms like kindling

and I sat on our couch            eating them,

watching television in the dark, trying

not to frighten my dinner.

 

The flies in my body were too loud as they                    rebounded

against my soft tissue, humming like stuttering

engines. They aren’t musicians, they

can’t keep time. Blue-red lights

ran by our window.

 

On the news a homeless bullet was now

squatting in a skull at the local park

and a motorcyclist

was shmear for the highway. No names were being

released so I drank

water with my seconds, my time crumbs.

 

Sometimes I wake up

in the frozen hours of the morning

seeking your warm or, when I’m embarrassed hold my           breath

waiting for the hill of blankets to rise.

Sometimes the time I eat leaves me

starving and the insects inside

rave,

 

sometimes I’m full enough the

lines of my mouth and that singular

crease in my forehead drags down.

 

One day we’ll throw our watches

and calendars out into the evening air. Maybe some other

couple will find all our spare moments            blowing in the grass

at a park, put them in order,

carry them home            eat them slowly together.

Maybe all at once.

 

For tonight, love           come home.

Lick the seconds from my fingers, kiss the minutes

off my chin.

Sherry Bollero is a PhD student at the University of North Dakota where she studies early modern drama, cultural studies, and adaptations. She teaches English composition classes to undergraduate students and will teach a class on adaptation this spring. 

Sherry Bollero

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