Analog monster
of round white face,
sharp, pointy black
hands proclaiming
what cannot be:
Eleveny-oh sixteens.
Grandchildren don’t lie.
There is no way
to process seconds
with that skinny
limb when we count
by fives.
It takes twenty-teen seconds
to reach the ice cream stand.
But hours go by
waiting for the next
intravenous sac
to get hung. No matter
how many times you spin,
it’s all a lie. Tick, tick,
and tock. Twelve years since
the funeral is twelve months,
is twelve weeks, is
twelve days is,
Lisa St. John is a writer living in New York’s Hudson Valley. She is the author of Ponderings (Finishing Line Press) and Swallowing Stones (Kelsay Books). A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Lisa has published her poetry in numerous journals and anthologies, including Light, The Ekphrastic Review, Glassworks, and 2elizabeths Volume 1, as well as The Poetry Distillery. Her poems have won several awards, such as The Bermuda Triangle Prize and New Millennium Writing. Her essays and memoir excerpts have been published in magazines and nonfiction collections. For a list of publications, please visit her at https://www.lisachristinastjohn.com/