Crooked, sharp and broken blades of someone's painted rocking horse. A saw meets flesh re-quilted into shameful posit of a stump. Air weighs more than seeded clouds. I wake up after surgery-- think I'm somehow lighter now. I'll know I'm there when I can bite a bathroom mirror in honest two-- go my way in summer shorts. There sit slippers, pumps, and thongs. Bazookas of a bitter cartridge-- bubble gum in holes of flutes. Empty growing deeper things in ways a world can't understand but lives with watching anyway. Hollow turns to peat moss fragments in a barn, a dry straw nest of missingness calling to a raging flame. I'll realize the penetration of the light-- see what it reveals of me. I'll sleep when snoring lumpy naked fails to wake my peace of mind. When dregs become a sexy breast I let you fondle tenderly. I'll know I'm there when where is wearing open sides of evening gowns, not wet chips of winter wood. All we lose in life is fine-- a yardstick sizing what we own. Glued unicorns in photo slots and not just anger's diary. A locust eating local ghosts and building easels from their wings. The foliage of one tragedy: remiges from fate and will in battles of a pen's platoon. by Janet I. Buck |
