.................................
Daughter Alone
.................................

I am bruised
by her enthusiasm;
roughhousing afternoons
that begin with thumb wrestling,
her thumbs already longer than mine,
then to tickling, judo, kick boxing
and finally my death by suffocation,
her laughter muffled by the pillow
across my cauliflower ear.
I cannot give her four walls,
a walk-to-school childhood,
or a June Cleaver mother,
and I refuse her
a father sparring partner,
so I pay each Saturday
offering fair flesh to pummeling.
Ten rounds, winner take all.

 
.................................
Clocks
.................................

I wake myself
before the alarm,
anticipating in sleep
the misery of rising,
egg timer trickling
sand through my dreams.
I grant anarchy
to every timepiece
in my collection, each
proclaiming its own measure:
the living room clock
ticking six minutes fast
when it runs,
its pendulum now dying
the death of wind-up toys;
the car clock keeping
mountain standard time
year round;
the bedroom's red digital readout
counts forty minutes ahead,
a vestige of my drinking days
when I set it to bar time,
to point out the lateness
of the hour to casual pick-ups
once I'd had enough.
The only accurate time
is kept by the kitchen clock,
powered by one double A,
hung on the wall, out of sight
unable to interfere
with my inner ticking.

.................................
Cathy Calkins
.................................

 
Copyright © Cathy Calkins
November 2000

...three poems in this room by Radames Ortiz...
the story of eleven naval men
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