Rebecca Temerario

A Witness

I.

The way my uncle tunes the clock

is some nomenclature towards peace

induced and reinvented.

Hands flickering up and turning

the unknown, trusting the clock

to turn its heavy hands over.

The way he touches the clock

is something delicate and sure,

wise with the weight of ages,

holding in breath or not

breathing at all.

I thought of the way I wanted

to become the clock, dizzying

of its wall.

II.

They were all there, the whole family, at this

listless affair. Cousins sleeping or absorbed.

Grandma telling Grandpa what he sees

when he knows what he sees- he’s been at this

clock before. Mom wasting time at the dishes and dad

looking on, wanting to know his clock

as my uncle knows it: swift and unrelentless.