(for Marion)

You flew from him with no remorse,
only your mother’s anniversary clock
tucked tight beneath your twisted arm.
In 1942, Fly Girls piloted uneasily
on wings of their own design.

You departed life without qualm,
while that same timepiece chimed
reminders of the hour. No fancier
of feeding tubes, you gave a final
salaam in sage cashmere by Chanel.

Now I carry the clock to tough spots
where women gather. Let them rub
the chiseled intricacies, voice unlimited
wishes, master the plaque at its base:
"Scorn the ticking and accept the light."