Written by Amanda Trout
I hung my grandfather’s broken clock, its face
locked perpetually evening —
6:37 — when sunsets used to dapple
us maple, rouge, and strawberry blonde
in the plastic pool where I drowned
little whales and pretended my fingers
were Jonah and when light hits
the clock's gold border, you see us
together again, granddaughter grandfather collaged
in tiny Christmases, my baby body snuggled
in your plaided lap and my first thought
will be my own father’s
who told his daughter turned tearful
gatherer of shattered glass, this clock
was never Grandpa’s, just gaudy
art-deco decor, bought at a Ross probably
and that first thought I’ll stab away
with the glass still under my fingernails,
hammer another nail in, slowly trace
each face trapped in the frame.
.
Amanda Trout is a Midwestern US writer and current reader for the Cimarron Review. Her work has been featured in Vermillion Lit, Apple in the Dark, the Northwind Treasury by Raw Earth Ink, and other publications. Find Amanda on Instagram @atrout2972.