TAR

Time is the great usher

playbills filling boxes in someone else’s attic.

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I pack all your things and any beautiful person

walking by might fill you like I couldn’t.

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May you rest in me as a gourd vine growing

around something lost to someone once

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but claimed new by mulch and seed, tendrils moving

towards the sun, the sun lighting up the lank of your torso

beneath your shirt,

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your shirt getting folded in a new way by someone else.

How I managed to always fold your clothes and never mine.

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May the blight of us like sediment grow firm

the firmament of us grow soft

as new love congregates like candelabras

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our hearts like everybody’s hearts

eventually back into the earth

the earth a clock, a false torch

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in the hard drive

of the universe.

Rena Medow's writings and illustrations can be found in HASH, The Vancouver Sun, LunaLuna & VICE.