Time Machine

“Since time begins to slow down with higher speeds, 
it can be shown that at the speed of light it stops totally 
and beyond that begins to run backwards.” ~ Einstein

So I thought up a time-machine in 
my mind and wrote this poem at a 
fraction of a second faster than
299,792,458 meters per second,
accelerating appropriately until I 
arrived at my pre-meditated destination

flashing past memories as if 
God were a cartoonist and had 
condensed my existence into a flip book,
using his left thumb to maneuver the pages flawlessly, 
the same way I would view family photo albums 
when I was ten – 

starting from the back cover and 
flipping towards the beginning until the
distance in-between my parents as they 
posed fraudulently became closer

watching as their stiff arms at their sides began 
to stretch towards one another like trapeze artists until 
their hands clasped once again

seeing their smiles resurrect 
like Bodhidharma as I got 
shorter and shorter with each
flip of the page until I finally disappeared. 

Insecurity would lead me to believe that 
their recovery was a result of returning to a 
time when I was not born.  If I would have 
discovered this gift of time travel sooner, I 
would have traveled to a time where my 
existence split into my father’s sperm and 
my mother’s egg – that way I would have 
committed suicide twice to prevent my 
birth from ever occurring or better yet – 

continued my journey into the past
through the chemical composition of 
my parents, convincing them both to 
name me Isaac – that way God could 

command them to sacrifice the very thought of me.
Only this time, the Angel of the Lord would 
not intervene and Abraham would complete his Olah. 

I’m quickly approaching 7 a.m. on June 28th, 2008 and I begin to slow down my 
thoughts as if carefully landing a Boeing 787.

I arrive at my destination.

This is the day my mother dies – the
day I chose not to go to the hospital because 
she and I had not spoken for five years.

I arrive at Columbia Presbyterian and the nurse 
directs me to her room.  I walk in and my mother turns 
her head away shameful of her condition – patches of 
skin cancer removed from fifty percent of her face. 

I want to tell her that there’s nothing to be ashamed of because 
she is like the Parthenon – weathered but still beautiful.  
Tell her that she is the Goddess Athena and death is Poseidon. 
So rename me Athens, Mother, for you have already won the 
city of my heart.  If you were to hold up my body to the Sun and 
see through my skin you would still see your love running through 
my veins.  But from the look on your bitter face it 
seems as if you’ll be needing some of this love back.
And I’d gladly use the same sharp tongue I once 
cursed you with to slit my veins and perform a 
blood transfusion, but time is running out

so I gently place the defibrillator of my hand on 
your chest and wait for my conscious to say “clear,” 
hoping that the electric shock of my forgiveness can 
resuscitate your smile the same way I would when I was ten…

Clear! 
I love you.
Clear! 
I’m sorry.
Clear! 
Forgive me!

My mother flat lines as my alarm clock goes off – a 
cold reminder that time travel can only be used to remember, 
never to change the past.  And the only souvenir I carry in the 
luggage of my memory from this trip
is regret.