What Time the Clock Won’t Say by Meeah Williams

It’s that rarefied hour of morning when you can hear glass breaking. No one will fully waken to your touch and you can almost see what cats see. The hallway is wired, tense with the potential explosives have. It’s like you’re the only one left alive. You must walk carefully to the kitchen, every hair on your body an antennae receiving signals from the stars. I am not going to tell you which way to turn in the darkness. I am not a platoon leader, I’ve no insignia on my shoulder. I’m a poet, I’ve been given charge of nothing. I’ve lost whatever I might have belonged to once. I don’t know which door to open anymore than you do but I know the sun is behind one of them. And a green hill, a field of sunflowers, and a white horse with eyes so dark and loving you’d swear it was a human mother once—a mother who loved and lost a child that’s been miraculously returned. I know it’s something we must believe but honestly at this most dangerous of hours I don’t know how we can.


Meeah Williams has stories, poems & art scattered widely across the internet, as well as in print. Google will locate much of her work.

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