Time is a Grave
When time collides with time, what disaster
abandons the space between? Like uranium
split, do neutrons birth neutrons until atomic
blasts ring? Do the cosmos blink away the sudden
flash from earth and ask, “What’s that thing?”
and shrug away en masse. Is (in)difference all that lasts?
Or does one time become the other, or brother
to the first, or a mother cradling to her breast
the weaker of the two? No one knew. Until
the day on which it happened, when white settlers
came with hooks and fastened to the land’s skin
like ticks that quietly pretend, here, it’s just them.
Then one approach to time began to chew the other,
with teeth like gears that turn the clocks as settlers
sneered and shunned the sun, the land, the water’s
frolicking beat. Turned away as teeth began to chew
away bones of Native time and suck the supple marrow
clean, a fate, we’d think, Native time had foreseen.
But time’s a grave and its digger, too.
Both here at once, when neither, alone, will do.