Time Machine by Kade Hornbuckle

We all have our own time machines;

mine is water.

People call me Kala

because I don’t remember  where I came from.

 

My skin has long since darkened

from traveling, trying to find my answers.

I am now a nineteen-year-old woman

capable of handling herself in sketchy situations.

 

Some people believe in photographic memory,

sheepish people don’t notice misnomers.

Eidetic memory, the gift given to me by life.

It has led me to my time machine.

 

Age one.

I am found at the base of a white elm

by a wandering Turk.

He was old beyond age.

 

Practitioner of Pre-Gupta,

he read his Agni Puran religiously.

For six years this kind soul nurtured me

until fate met him in the form of dragons.

 

These dragons made of smoke and

birthed from red gold,

they have been called Yahweh’s flower…

 

As his opium stained lips conducted

his final concerto of chaos control,

his retinas expanded with his final

threads of knowledge,  completing

the burl of information his mind had absorbed.

Every smoke ring my eyes see

remind me of him for none shall

equal his hearts of orange.

 

Age eight…

After a year meditating beneath a waterfall,

with nothing but the spirit molecule

and birds to feed me,

I am born anew.

 

Kun Gek Do, my new skill,

emulation of water.

fluent arm and leg strength

allow me to puppeteer my opponents.

 

 

Age nine.

Today I found a sensei in water.

She has become my mother

and my time machine.

 

For six years I ruminated in wonder.

Following mother’s carved paths.

I still ask myself,

Where is father…?

 

Here I am at my father’s door at last…

to find only an engraving

of death’s feet

on the step.

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Categories: Issue 1 - Fall 2011, Periodicals, Poetry | Leave a comment

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