Summer 2009

Table of Contents - Vol. V, No. 2

 

Poetry    Essays    Translations    Fiction   

Catherine Hartlove

 

Grandfather's Clock

I wonder how many little girls
spent cozy evenings
with their daddies,
counting,
binding
the thick, ecru coupons
that came in packs of Raleighs;
looking through the catalogues,
circling all the things that
they dreamed about buying,
and maybe were proud
when the grandfather's clock
bought from a million or so packs
arrived on the doorstep.
I wonder how many teens
on the edge of womanhood
rushed home to beat the chiming clock
when curfew came too soon,
and instead of going inside
would sit with Dad on the front stoop,
watching
the red tip flash
as he inhaled deeply,
then blew smoke into the air.
And they'd talk,
about everything,
nothing,
watching fireflies in the loblolly pines.
I wonder how many women,
maybe some with kids of her own,
stopped winding the clock
when there wasn’t enough time,
with, you know,
radiation
and trying to wipe his hair
out of the tub
before he showered again.
How many women
stopped dusting it---
Even though it needed dusting,
Even though it sat at the head of his
hospital bed
in the living room---
knowing exactly what you can get
from smoking Raleighs.

 

© Catherine Hartlove

 

            

Poetry    Essays    Translations    Fiction