That Time

The smell from my elbow radiates through my sleeve. It is that time again. I watch her. From a different seat. Through different arches. I rub my hand over my stomach. The black fabric snagging on the ulcers. The holes nobody sees. Oozing quietly. Hurting me every time I fold or bend. I wonder if my card is lost or if it has been stored in a catalogue of unsolved prayers the father reads on a Saturday night. Everybody asks the same. Help. Remember. Help. Her tiny shoulders must ache. I hope the father holds the baby for a while. It is hard. Holding two worlds. One outside. One in. Maybe it rubs her stomach too. An unholy collision of prayer and need. I worry the nail polish off my finger. Nobody is immune from me. From the smell that leaks out and doesn’t wash off. Red goes dark the longer it is exposed to air. I keep myself under. Gather up the rust on pieces of lint. Collect the drench of time. Sniff at it like prayers on a Saturday night. But that time becomes one time. Stuck together unsolved in a box. In a drawer. Under me.