When the doctor said to your mother,

She walked out of the clock

I painted three scenes:

First, your breath went anti-clockwise: the hour
hand walking backwards until it was swallowed by time.

Second, you crossed out of time with the minute hand
stuck between your teeth — night had slipped into your mouth.

Third, you drained your mother’s chest and poured
yourself into it; swinging back and forth begging for gravity.

Pain, too, is a child.