1
This is the time of day when minutes stall
and clock hands seem not to move at all.
It is always zero before or after the hour—
the same old trees standing bare,
sturdy-limbed, with no one climbing them.
Kids spill out of school, then
disappear into one doorway or another
while snow keeps falling in soft diagonals,
sealing the windows like a memory block.
The pass is closed in both directions,
stranding those at home and those
wishing to get back—
2
My mother still knows my name,
but puzzles over the word daughter.
Dressed white as a trance,
a spindly nurse tries to explain
what her mind cannot grasp.
Somewhere between brain
and tongue, a circuit has blown,
scrambling facts and images—
until the fear in her eyes
comes to rest in mine. I imagine her dreams
and wonder whose wish this is—
mine or hers—now pressing to
go back and begin the past.
