This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.
Illustration by Mel Wang
3:02
The window crack sends
a wet breath of seed pollen.
My worried door coughs.
12:17
An ant braids its hair
perched on my pinkiepeak. Careful,
you would hear no thump.
6:55
Whiffling steam, those spring fabrics,
the drop running down my thigh
tastes like rust.
9:45
The streetchair takes this
first chance to burrow my back.
At least I may sit.
7:34
Golden hour is here,
two birds dash above us both
just like the starlings do
Joan Tate is a graduating senior in Columbia College majoring in Creative Writing Poetry. This fall she will be attending UMass Amherst's Poetry MFA. When she isn't writing about the ebullient bewilderment of bodies in time she can be found wandering Riverside Park and admiring its many raccoons.