Sigyn Kills Time

So get out of this one, Wizard.
Never ones to do things by halves,
they’ve pretty much stitched you
as tight as can be. As tight
as your lips that time, thick crisscrossed twine
scribbling out your speech, dots of red
where the needle dove pitilessly
into your face. Thank me
for my unpicker. For not saying
“I told you so”. If you find yourself
in a grateful state of mind, thank me also
for running here to this rock
where stringy parts of our son bind you.
Thank me for selecting the biggest bowl
in the larder to hold like an umbrella
between the serpent’s drips and your face.
If not for staying,
thank me for my choice of crockery, the extra inch
of rim granting fewer dashes to empty its contents
onto balding patches where nothing will grow,
returning to find you splashed, eyes fizzing, screeching
a hundred names, rarely mine.