By Milly Butler
If I could begin again
l'd abstain from prodding the hourglass,
and addle the ache to gutter the sand faster.
I watch it lapse through the gaps,
pleating in a pool of minced grit
confined by its former vestige
held back by what it was before,
glass untrodden by the shore.
If I could begin again,
I'd not tip myself upside down in haste,
speeding time, as the dry sand filters
through my bushed spine, pooling in my gut
in a hoard of chastised chances
confined by my former vestige.
Detained by how I once existed.
Lest you rupture me open like a shell
and tear me open like a wedged lapel,
then the hope that once encased all
beaches of my existence
will skim through my weary fingers
grain after grain, again and again
bursting urgently through the breaches.
Exploiting my slack clasp,
until there's no time left
to be glass.