Cel*e*don

in the old town there sits a clock they think has ticked since the beginning of time

not once have they seen it stop.

translucent teenage girls run on air to the gazebo it watches over

counting time in hours out of twenty-four

as celadon cars idle at the corner.

the clock blinks them away with short-hand flicks. 

night opens his eyes 

nods sleepily to the clock 

who in turn hums to the girls

urging them to move out of night’s reach

and into the arms of soon-to-be men who stiffen just right when they touch them with fingernails painted beige.

in groups like these

groups of good girls who run from night, 

there is always an infidel. 

a girl with skin black as seed who lingers as the sun sets,

and watches her friends flip waves of gold over their shoulders

as they race towards a setting pink sky.    

the infidel turns to face a dark blue heaven. 

she has seen her fair share of soon-to-be men,

sung false praises in low throat notes under artificial light 

each encounter leaves her emptier than the last. 

they will never love her purple body with the fervor translucent skin commands. 

she is sick of it. 

and so, she slides down the shoulders of her sweater,

exposes textured skin for night to caress,

unafraid of the horror stories his hands may hold.

night whispers in her ear, asks her to dance.     

they move slow at first

she is not fast enough and quickly learns that she must kick off her shoes to match the quarter beats the moon sets after dark 

smiling at mosquitoes as they hum along and leave sting-note reminders on her soft Sahara skin. 

night pulls her close, and with palms flat against his chest. 

she sobs. 

her tears stain his coat. they dry instantly.

they hurtle through time together, 

the clock watches her heart harden when night’s company is not enough

to keep her from solitude’s grip,

it mourns silently with her for the time she has lost trying too hard to love translucent boys who will never learn to love her black body.

her night is her funeral. 

the clock clears its throat to night 

clicks its long hand syntax

night straightens up, prepares to carry the moon onto its next shift

the sun heel-toes through the sky; fluttering her eyelashes at the clock 

girls slam those same celadon car doors and crush cigarettes under thin shoes

shuffle back into morning under a purple sky; ash marks trailing shyly behind

proud mauve marks on their necks

they are women in love overnight. 

there is chatter, stories filled with words of empty love slice through morning air, and yet the girl is silent. 

she leans on the clock, who rests a phantom arm on her bare shoulder in return 

the girls fall silent as she tells her story. 

she speaks softly of time, of a dark hour so holy the girls are left speechless.

they pinch their bruises and roll clean white teeth over swollen lips

their experiences are swift memories now.

the girl tells of what she encountered at night, 

she spits out syllables, runs hands through her high hair 

taps out dance beats she found so complex just hours before

She is a woman in love overnight.    

when there is nothing left to tell

she swallows thickly and closes her lips to questions

the girls are silent

nothing to ask

yet she has so much to answer 

the clock grins on and ticks towards infinity.

Alice Blackwood