by R.B. Simon
I have ruined too many clocks
let the springs solder themselves
together with rust, the hands stuck
twitching between five and seven
as I raged at the grievance
in my blood.
Years passed, decades even,
in a dissociation of self-pity,
bent on devouring the embers
beneath me and blaming
others for the kindling.
Today I’ve become a sundial,
face upturned toward
a fire that never burned me,
unbound by the unalterable
course of light and shadow.
So much time.
So much time
left.
R.B. Simon (she/her) is a queer, black, disabled writer who has been published in pacificREVIEW, The Coop Poetry Collective, Strange Horizons, Literary Mama, Obsidian, and CALYX, among others. Her first full-length collection, Not Just the Fire, was released in March 2023 from Cornerstone Press. In her free time, she enjoys creating visual art, napping, and coffee-flavored caffeine. She is currently living in Madison, WI with her spouse and two-month-old daughter. Learn more at www.rb-simon.squarespace.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 