All posts tagged time

Time Travel.

Published May 28, 2014 by April Fox

We made psychedelic candy
in my grandma’s muffin tins and I drank
chocolate-flavored liquor from a teacup
from a set I got for Christmas
from a friend that I lost somewhere
in the rubble of
the past
and I found
my fingers, lit
the buzz before the thunder

You took a picture of
the cat you rescued
lying next to me
arms paws crossed
in identical directions
stretched out feeling
the vibration of the
bass against my heart

The night is barking dogs and traveling
through time
I remembered this a
thousand years ago.


Broke Down.

Published October 10, 2013 by April Fox

The numbers on the clock run themselves up
like debt
hold us captive in
the same way
trying to pay back
what we’ve borrowed
interest without

On the side of the road, on the
curb, hood up, broken down
flashing lights behind and a reassuring
to stick around, I pondered
the contents of my glove box
the french fries left to dry out in the back seat
a change of name
and scenery.

Locked into gear, I rolled back
and then stopped
with nowhere to go.

I held my hands out, small and pale
long fingers, knuckles like knots
on driftwood
crept up on the realization
that they are naked
by themselves.

I could smell the grass behind me, hear the
faint chirp of brakes as people, curious,
slowed down to take a peek and feeling cheated out of
blood or some sobbing
ingenue, desolate and desperate-
hurry on.

There is a glass bottle, half full of tea on the floor board of the back seat
and I think, maybe, a blanket in the very back
dusty with the crumbs of half-eaten cookies and slightly rank
with the residue
of old juice and
being forgotten

There is no one in the drivers seat.
The sky is pink and grey and the lights flash and turn the air
a creepy ozone purple and my eyes are closed now

Clock rolls on, adding charges by the second,
late fees and phone calls
wondering where
I’ve been

The asphalt breathes into the soles of my shoes
I could start walking
but I’m where I need to be
right now.

Untitled 12.01.12

Published December 1, 2012 by April Fox

because we don’t acknowledge 548070_526218677405194_1717280127_n
we can say that this is
and every
sorrow, fear, each
hesitation, every
misstep, hurt
misunderstanding is a
second, nothing more
among the ever-reaching
we have filled with light
and grace
and every touch,
each smile
every step we take together
through the centuries we’ve
occupied is
infinite(ly small)
and lasts forever.

on time

Published August 8, 2012 by April Fox

both of us
linked by invisible wires and lines that snaked
through the air
across town
there is no time

it held us there.

early morning
tying shoes and searching for lost unmentionables
we cursed it
breathed its name like an epithet
wove it in with all the rest
of the words you shouldn’t say
in public

our contempt was palpable
-if tearing the calendar
and crushing the clock
could make it stop
we would have.

it is inked into my skin
indelible, the fact

within the walls that keep us safe
and warm, as long as the wind is gentle
dancing past the cracks
and the gaps between the window frames
and glass
it takes hold again and we are
bound by this,
a measured step that he
with his musical ear and i
with my careful syntax breath
cannot fall into
without tripping
at each other
slaves in competition
for the cherished spot
at the master’s


Published June 18, 2012 by April Fox

today was longer than the night before
(when, restless
he woke me to trade places with him:
“my head is too full of things,”
he said.
“i need to read for a while.”)
i don’t remember the resituating of ourselves-
if that’s even a word-
the crawling over or under, legs suddenly twenty feet long and multiplied
clumsy in my sluggish drawl
and his eagerness to settle
but i know that’s how it happened.

on the couch, some hours before that
we sat angled away from each other
heel to heel
toes prehensile, he said we were like monkeys
holding feet.

we’re magnetic, still
i said
and he agreed.

today the clock sped up, slowed down
spit its parts out at me, laughing mean and
cruel, sadistic
there is not enough for anything
that matters
far too much for things that make my face ache, make my head hurt
make me want to crawl between the racks of fabric
pull the velvet and the burlap and the brightly patterned cottons down
and cover me until
i am nothing but a pile
that no one sees.

and when the lights lit up the front porch i could see inside
through the slanted angles of the door
and my breath began again and i was inside
quiet words, my face against the hair
of the tiny girl
in her tiny room
growing up despite my silent
but sincere, futile objections

time is just a construct
but we are captive just the same
and quiet is the only
counterstrike that works.

Compulsive Time Ramble

Published May 21, 2012 by April Fox

The days lately have seemed longer than usual. I heard a song this morning at work, went to look it up just now and thought it felt like days ago that I’d heard it, rather than just hours. It’s one I had in my head a few weeks ago (months, maybe? I don’t know) and I’ve always liked it, but it’s been floating around my head like the dregs of a dream since it showed up then.

I remember conversations about time that I had ages ago, lifetimes ago, see? Everything relates to time. I feel like I never have enough, that I should be able to stretch and bend it, elastic it should go where I tell it to, when I tell it to, how, and why.

We could lose a step here and there and never know it till the end, lying withered and hushed on starched hospital sheets, surrounded by the worried grimaces of folks we’ve loved forever, loved us back, never would admit that somewhere underneath the heartache they want to let go because time has stopped, held them there in the grip of your fractured hands, and then in silence we might beg for those steps back. The lucky ones believe that it will happen, through Heaven or reincarnation or spectral plane-hopping, universal jet-lag till you find your legs again. The rest of us take deep breaths and close our eyes and when the door closes we reach for the knob and hold it, willing the people we love to stay frozen on the porch step just a second longer-just a second before leaving, because everything is always and nothing is for ever and everything is forever, right now is it, the end, the loop station playing nothing till the power cuts out and the lights go dark.

I want to gather all the seconds that I’ve lost, knit them into a blanket to cover me when I’m dying-but I can’t knit, and I don’t have time to learn.

See how that works?

Today my little one spent the day with her sister, then went to spend the night with her dad after we took her brother to baseball practice. She asked if we could come home first, before I took her over there. I asked if she needed to change, or to get something before she went to dad’s. No, she said, she just wanted to be home for a minute. I get that. I like that she recognizes that need.

We were talking last night, beloved and I and our friend Max and some stranger at the Kava Bar, about the need for time and space of our own. I’m enjoying that tonight, with one little one tucked safely in bed here and the others at dad’s for the night, beloved off making music sound delicious on CD and the house is silent, nearly, just the sound of the fridge and the generic bug sounds that you hear in the summer. I like that we can steal seconds, hours for ourselves; giving them all away leaves you depleted, looking for other things to take the place of yourself inside your head. We need this, maybe more than most people: the chance to stretch out and breathe, even though breathing side-by-side is easier here than it ever was anywhere else. We need this, but I know that when the little ones wake and walk through the door, I will wrap myself in their skinny arms and breathe in the fact of them, let their voices settle into my brain and take up the space I empty out tonight, and before that, when I feel beloved settle in beside me, quiet and lit like a ghost by the computer screen, changing the structure of his form to fit perfectly around mine and speaking sleep into my already tired mind, time will stop and start again and I won’t mind not knowing where it’s going, just for now.

Anyway, I digress. This is the song. I reminds me of our little life, and I like it.


Untitled Insomniac Meandering

Published March 12, 2012 by April Fox

we are here and it could be that
life has slowed
or even stopped for a minute or seven or
a million; you know how we are
about time.
last night we laughed, arguing about whether or not
it was possible
to lose a measure of time
circled thoughts like children on tricycles
in half-safe parking lots of low-rent
apartment complexes, steady and shaky
both coming from the same place
taking opposite lanes and intersecting
paths and words and pretending
to make sense.
today, in a cemetery:
will we be buried next to each other?
[or something else; and that’s for us to know, not you]
and how could we think anything but that?
sun and there was grass beneath our feet-
yesterday, on top of everything, the planet
angled sharp below us
above us sky and wires growling softly
warning us to go
and in a moment i will curl myself up
small inside the deadhead t-shirt
stolen from your pile on the shelf
and i might wonder, briefly, once again
if hyphens are a compromise, a concession to the patriarchal-
maybe not
maybe i’ll just sleep
and let things be.

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