by Sarah Carey Aedrian Salazar Where black-arrowed hands ticked predictably for years, a house’s beating heart, a still, round space. Its yellow face had faded, like our tourbillon of hope against life’s gravity, within the silenced chimes —  no wing, no prayer, a generation, or a few, passing in seconds. We’d long since stopped holding time like a hostage between us, ransoming the old betrayals —  all we counted on to kill that elephant of remembrance to which we finally s