No Longer in Circulation

Her time was circular, returning once
every day, every week, every …
every bleeding hopeless dream

in agony. Never free, never free
from the crimson curse. Like
stickers slowly stuck on to trace

her youthful years; another year
another calendar, another slow
forced feature of her cultural heritage;

another calendar empty until not,
and so her power grew, to wobble
then wilt, to scream and scream

until the deaf no longer cared a whit.
She said as much to me, but I –
I only remember her first bleed.

Her time was circular, returning once
every day, every week the same
monotonous speak, a wall

of silence, peering eyes unmet
and the timid times
around gathered wood:

the circular table of taciturnity,
food fed to pigs in blankets
but snorting silenced

by wordless stares; worthless care
shaped her, men in white coats
caught her and flashing lights,

the red and the black, brought her
to needles: away away
please let me stay,

I remember her say.

Her time was circular, returning once
every day to the same place,
the same space,

of needless suffering, facing only
herself: reflections in a round mirror,
split hair and pale nails my lasting memory

of her.