When the factory floods & they stop printing calendars, she turns to her hands for the time. By now, the nail polish has traveled to the top inch of her fingertips, grooved keratin pushing past the past before gnawed erasure. Months of autumn rotting shorn clear entirely. Cause of death: teeth. Only now-chipped coral as witness to that fruit-filled heart nearing ripeness in August heat. & yet, the underneath blank. Every day another millimeter of possibility. The moons on her hands are round, happy to be seen again.