time is one of the strangest sensations
it creeps in and out of consciousness,
measured by a million things other than that clock
a year and a half, gone
gone, a year and a half
(an entirely different person ago…
who she was, i’ll never remember)
i tilt my head at the date on Tinsley’s grave —
the numbers seem so wrong
but in what world
would the date the day your baby died
seem anything other than wrong?
