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| Stringing Line Incessantly |
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|by Janet I. Buck
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You crimp a crust for cherry pies
and we talk. A little with words,
but mostly in that sacred place
where eyes are windows rattling.
Crimson pupils weathering
both dawn and darkness, equally.
My mother there, a slab of wood
eaten by the termite jaws
of tiny capsules by the bed,
washed down with cups of Chardonnay.
I ask you for some apple juice.
Its sappy fragrance like a prayer
my arrowed palms could learn to trust.
You see my tears as roads to take,
listen as I spill this fat
of turkey-basted emptiness.
"Our holidays at 'home' are cold.
Every reach becomes a breach
and bottles win each argument."
Funny how a poem can rhyme
and touch just sits there in dry prose.
Stringing lines incessantly
as if they're threaded fishing poles.
I sit in messy margins now
of disappointed dossiers.
Bruises building to a callus,
the blood of it all, just drained.
Brilliant contrasts of amour
don't even mean to be these stars
leading sticks away from fire.
I plan to go where quilts exist,
where needles work in busy teams,
chronicle and own a storm,
even with arthritic hands.
Love calls love-less shallow things
without an uttered syllable.
by Janet I. Buck |
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