 |
by Janet Buck |
| Death Has Ways The viewing room is cold. I hesitate at the lip of a door, spin on a lily heel, absorbing the drought in the pond. Pearls are falling from eyes, sliding a cheek into a curve under my ear. Death has ways of turning suns from mustard seeds in a jar to copper coins screaming with color for palms that open to light. The wax on your face reminds me to kiss the plains of my husband's back -- where the wheat still blows, where veins still run thin rivers there. Death has ways -- a messy accidental fax -- a siren that bolds the vowels of love, jostles the sleeping phone. Your arms sit crossed like junctures of an envelope. Your lids are down -- tea cups hiding cracks we fear. The fist of your heart is picked fruit quiet, sporting the size of the bruise. We have ink and signatures to loop and spend, graffiti of hate to blot and dry into a crust that peels. Letters to drop in the box of a sky still blue. Left by grace to linger for only a moment of sand. The Car Wash Dressed to kill the lonely skunk louder than Chanel perfume. Stiletto heels add height to sadness. Two large breasts are bearing down on burning chrome. This is the plan inside the ribs: let nipples call like corks to wine. Unwelcome mirrors are everywhere. Your waist is too old, full with accordion pleats, to carry off bikinis leaves. Gestures of wish die hard. Wild onions still grow in your eyes. Reflecting the storms that watered their fields. So many lovers, no great loves. I can see the song in your face -- its crinkled map, its pork chop hue, even and silk as years will allow. I watch you washing your car, buffing the lights with spit and a rag. The way you bend, a question mark: do butterflies exist, survive in ghettos of a body's jail? The moon will pop like buttons from a twisted sleeve. Jewelry shines with stars you missed. The hose runs into the street as if it's draining a pond. |
|
|
|
|
|