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The Sympathy of Clocks by Cate McGowan

September 6, 2022
Reading Time: 3 Minutes

The sympathy of clocks is a phenomenon in which a pair of moving clock pendulums in close proximity synchronize movement.


1. The Ship Navigator’s Wife Tries Patience

The wet cave’s a brackish tomb.

Slick with meaning, forgiveness

rustles in the ginnel’s background.

I wonder about that incarnadine

atmosphere swirling cowlick

clouds, some sailor’s delight.

Brothers’ blood oaths. Fluorescence

of flowers and their bright

moon sweetness. The stars

quiver, tapping Morse patterns,

the patterns of wives’ longing,

of ships gone, of soft evenings

lost, of no more pink skies at night.

2. Dear Iona

How’s tricks, my bonnie lass? From this Arctic

journey, battle-on-the-seas sail, I send

you the jewels I have—sapphire Northern Lights

and red flak-fire. Such colors! Orders come

down each night. We acquire targets, then aim,

discharge hard salvos, launch shells. Missile tails

spin as bullets flicker zenith bridges

and score Luftwaffe bombers. Messerschmitts

pitch, dive. Injured gulls. The wrecks rain debris,

disintegrate in green-glow flames. Such hues!

Here, near the pole, my compass rolls. I feed

cannons, trace rounds. Big ordnance. Roars, sizzles,

whines—whistled tunes, soft claps, timpani thumps.

Threading volleys stitch far-flung hemispheres.

Gone. Gone. Short-shots crater boreal bowls.

Pocked. Our bombs hit somewhere distant and kill

somebody’s someone. But believe me, love,

we’re dead-spent, too, come dawn’s muster. Deaf, blind.

This war’s at sixes and sevens, ashes.

It’s whorled gun smoke, deck crows, dark noons eating

in the mess. Officers bicker, and mad

swells pitch and swallow swabbed hulls.

Cold beauty lives here, though—crown auroras,

a gibbous moon’s ivory face, navy fjords,

iced peaks trinkling like bobeche crystals,

broken cloud-light. Squalls inhale, exhale, pall.

Tonight, I watched whale pods surface, slick, black—

their backs sprayed spume in lace-patterned fountains.

Boys, pom-pommer cads, aimed their 2-pounders,

shot the depths. Those craven seamen mistook

mammals for U-boats. I yelled, STOP! They didn’t.

I then ordered them to stop. They saluted.

No fights are fair at the front. No fight’s fair.

When off-duty, through all-day barrages,

I bury inside my bunk. Or I walk

the boat to search for smiles. No kind person

exists here. No one mentions going home.

I imagine myself back there with you

on your channel island, swaddled and warm.

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Poetry  / The Weekly

McGowan, Cate
Cate McGowan is an essayist, poet, fiction writer, visual artist, and author of two books—she won the Moon City Press Short Fiction Award for her debut short story collection, True Places Never Are, and her debut novel, These Lowly Objects, was released in 2020. McGowan’s work appears or is forthcoming in numerous literary outlets, including Glimmer Train, The Citron Review, The Chestnut Review, Shenandoah, Tahoma Literary Review, and Norton’s anthology Flash Fiction International. McGowan is currently completing her Ph.D.

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