Let’s get married,
she says.
When?
Yesterday,
she says.
Impossible, I say.
Time
She responds,
Time is fictional.
It was made for trains.
I wrote the railway a letter.
I told them that they didn’t need to stop
here anymore.
Our wedding day will always be yesterday.
Our anniversary will be tomorrow.
We will never celebrate it.
Anniversaries disrupt continuity.
We will not be hash marks on a doorframe.
We will be marked by the growth of mountains
and the erosion of stone
This heart beat is a stutter-step
Keep this dime-store orchestra body
in unison with your lilting hands.
She packs her batons
in her grandmother’s suitcase.
She is ready for this journey.
I will follow.
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