Accidental

Broken mantle clock, squat turreted castle

kept for its hand-painted closet,

coiled beehive in gauzy umlaut of wings,

gilding pale as the heat the vagina gives off,

after—after what? An afterthought, now,

to change “vagina,” for modesty’s sake,

to “portal to this world.” Truth is, the key

signature of any day’s measure can be altered

of a wild sudden. How a deleted “i”

turns another word to “marred,” for instance.

Bond indifferent as a dish of untouched soaps.

Shaped like eggs, no less. What is it

floods our clothes in the ruby dusk

of our beginnings? Is it what’s inside the door

of the flawed clock, a fury of shadows

cast by nothing? Fluke or fate,

whatever happens or doesn’t happen,

the portal happened once. To make you,

you who were also an I. To make me,

the child you were. You what I will be.