What does a week bring 

Margaret Hardigg

The day moves so slowly inside me, 

my room warps – winding ‘round 

any sense of time and suffocates 

until all is blue. 

Why do we give days shiny bows, 

tie them and celebrate the present 

like a dawn is a new holiday 

each time it rises? 

Night falls softly 

as if the moon was waiting 

all along to be invited in. 

I caught myself dreaming– 

about clocks. Each face peeling, 

sent to the shop to be oiled and laying 

until a genius guides its hands, coaxing, 

it back into a choking pattern.