I was married to “Untitled,”

when all of this began.

Still begs the question,

“does he like me?”

Sitting in the afternoon,

watching the clock in a hundred degrees;

sitting. Waiting for him to text me back,

Watching the clock, hands spin slowly...

And it’s a long....

ways until September.


Bureaucracy in the Second World War,

like any other day to day conundrum,

passing by, coming; going...

stopped. And start again...

This repetition in the machines of god...

Hark! Gabriel’s flat line symphony,

the silence of another angel passing through the narrow gate.

Only the parents’ tears,

can reason with the devil.


Flat line, Fat Tire, one for each hand as we drink in

slow motion, gazing out upon the stars that ceased to shine;

World War in slow motion,

watching the clock in a hundred degrees;

waiting for the bombs to drop,

one. Two, three four; five. Six.

Seven-eight-nine, ten.


Twelve, thirteen.

Detonating on impact against the hollowed husk

which was a parent’s heart.

Copyright 2016 Maria Morisot

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