Issue 2:
Fire
Janet I. Buck
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Fencing Eyes
Burden bricks like crayons crushed.
I try to kill a flight of stairs.
It isn’t going up or down.
All I am and live without
in circles on the tender edge.
I’m circumstancial evidence that
God could leave a child cold
like baby chickens in a cage.
Bitter’s fire has orange flames
and nectarines of vapid smiles;
memos passed between two rivers.
Hope is wet, but faith is dry.
Dingys of an attitude that
tie the ship to stubborn shores.
My bones are bags of radishes.
They flower in the tidal waves.
Of course I know associations
of a dream so rudely
stained and interrupted.
Ordered almonds. Handed acorns.
Trash compactors of a tear.
Fine for sorrow’s thinner silk,
but not the darker cherry pits.
I draw maps where feet should go.
But getting there is fairy tales.
Stubborn missives meeting strife.
Fences fencing eyes and all.
My gracelessness feels edible,
but like a tree was born to serve
another purpose with its life.
~Janet I. Buck
Janet teaches writing and literature at the college level. Her poetry and essays have appeared in journals, anthologies, and e-zines world-wide.
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© 1999 by Janet I. Buck. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 23, 2002.