Cycle of Sounds

    Hickory， dickory， dock——

    it began of course in the nursery.

    Mouth so safe——the tucked in

    repetitions that would make

    a child smile， absurd words——

    how I loved the non-

    sense. The mouse

    ran up the clock.

    Then， the clock struck one.

    The chemotherapy is working.

    Her hair has not yet fallen

    to the dried out ground——just thins.

    I sit and listen

    as she retells her life's stories——hear only

    the fragile rhythms. The notes expand

    then stick together. The accordion¹ of her

    years fans then shrinks to a small space.

    The music and the place

    will remain here after

    conversation is over. I run

    Down there every afternoon to check

    the minute and the hour

    hands， the drum and the pendulum²， the weight——

    to reverse the escapement.

    The mouse ran down，

    the mouse ran up. She's trapped

    inside the ticking clock，

    and I flail³ against the break-

    proof glass， not able to get her out.

    As ridiculous as it sounds

    hickory， dickory， dock