Cycle of Sounds

　　 by Susan Hahn

　　 Hickory， dickory， dock--

　　 it began of course in the nursery.

　　 Mouth so safe--the tucked in

　　 repetitions that would make

　　 a child smile， absurd words--

　　 how I loved the non-

　　 sense. The mouse

　　 ran up the clock.

　　 Then， the clock struck one.

　　 The chemotherapy is working.

　　 Her hair has not yet fallen

　　 to the dried out ground--just thins.

　　 I sit and listen

　　 as she retells her life's stories--hear only

　　 the fragile rhythms. The notes expand

　　 then stick together. The accordion of her

　　 years fans then shrinks to a small space.

　　 The music and the place

　　 will remain here after

　　 conversation is over. I run

　　 Down there every afternoon to check

　　 the minute and the hour

　　 hands， the drum and the pendulum， the weight--

　　 to reverse the escapement.

　　 The mouse ran down，

　　 the mouse ran up. She's trapped

　　 inside the ticking clock，

　　 and I flail against the break-

　　 proof glass， not able to get her out.

　　 As ridiculous as it sounds

　　 hickory， dickory， dock