This Poem was Submitted By: Molly Johnson On Date: 2002-03-26 21:34:54 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Biological

It doesn’t tick over  in a slide of time, but slams up against  silence and shares its echoes. I vibrate in my fingernails,  behind my ears, in the half circles that cup the tendon  at the back of my foot.  I know it’s not a clock,  with it’s sudden speed and quickening. (Though it has everything to do with gray roots hidden under mahogany lies. It has every aspect of short windedness when I count what has gone by. It is knowing the longer I wait, the less likely I will be a mother.) There is no tense   whirr of wound parts. It’s a careening pulse, a pushing thrust  of my own heart which needs to punch its rhythm into a faster rotation and  amplify itself to be copied. A loud pacing that steps together  once it starts another.

Copyright © March 2002 Molly Johnson


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