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.