Issue 15
Risk
Janet I. Buck
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Stinging Graves
A statue of Mary beside your grave
is all I have for concrete faith
and yet I'm here, brushing dirt
around the dates inscribed
with too much certainty.
I approach with sweaty palms,
knowing even bitter loss,
its aching and portentous gift,
belongs like ribbons in my hair.
Metallic rain falls from clots
of gray meringue,
a cemetery comes alive
with daffodils and visitors --
yellow horns and streaming tears
all march to drums of memory.
Despite my doubts,
I move as if you're watching me.
No one litters in this place,
no one screams despite the urge.
All the plots so neatly pruned
of gangly weeds --
names uncovered by the wind.
At least we risked amour, I say --
stand to leave before
the moon just vanishes
behind a soapy twilight cloud.
I'm crushing fingered dandelions,
wishing for the full blown rose
that never lasts beyond
a single avid breath,
this life of rainbow and mirage --
bordered by empty pots
cracking like old woman hands.
~Janet I. Buck
Janet I. Buck is a six-time Pushcart Nominee and her poetry has recently
appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, OffCourse, Octavo, and dozens of
journals worldwide. Email.
© 2004 by Janet I. Buck. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2004 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.