He lifts down the clock
from the shelf in the dining room
and places it on a clean tea cloth
on the big table

With his thumbnail
he flicks the little golden latch
and the glass falls forward
on its tiny hinges  

We see the clock’s radiant face
like a bride’s with her veil  thrown back
and the butterfly-intricate hands
breathless, I watch

the minute hand, pressed down,
turns steadily ‘clockwise’
not back an hour but  
eleven slow turns forward.

Time moves in only one direction
it cannot be turned back
He wanted me to know -
I know it now


From This Life: A Love Story (Cyberwit, 2019).
Used here with permission.