Folded in on herself,
Hot thighs pressed against hot chest,
Hot knees up to hot forehead,
On which there is seaweed hair –
Time curls up and sweats.
Flesh sticks to
Cold white tiles beneath her buttocks.
The clocks cry her name from
Outside the door;
Their hands are stiff and still.
She thinks she is crying,
Half asleep, half awake.
Anaesthetised by pain,
Her damp hot skin does not move from
The cold white tiles.
The words she cannot say
Buzz in her ears,
Sitting fatly on her heart –
Enough to make
Her own breath suffocate.
I am strong. I must move.
She hears the words she cannot say.
But the hot flesh that is stuck on
The cold white tiles
Does not move.
Someone must help me.
She thinks but cannot say.
Someone must move me
Before it is too late,
Because I am unable
To move myself.
No-one can tell her
That the only person that can help Time
Is Time herself.
