iwtv

The Small Hours

My eardrums

seethe in protest,

my jaw clenches

with rancor while the

hard and heavy

clang clang clanging

goes on.

Torturous time passes

with no relief.

Why does it become

so hot when I

can’t sleep?

The body writhes

as hot minutes tick away,

 as though

noise were a physical thing—

This noise.

No footsteps usher in

to stop the metal on wood, and

 this body

cannot take anymore.

I rip covers off,

swing the door off its hinges

to get at her—whose

old age, thin frame, and grand title

do not matter now.

I rip the metal ice cream scoop

with wooden handle

out of her frail hands—

in whose veins pump

only liquor now—

and toss it out

the front door

into the small hours of the night.

--Laura Adkins