Issue 7:
Play
Janet I. Buck
Home
Welcome
Contents
Contact Us
Join Our Mailing List
What's New
Site Map
Site Search
Salute
I play with flutes, imaginings.
A mother I have never met,
standing at a cutting board
inhaling stray flour like specks
of pollen in the spring.
"It's just a pie," your lips will say,
"a bra, a jacket, clever cape
for blessings sitting everywhere."
If not for you we might have skipped
an act of love that bundles fruit,
becomes a symbol,
neon orange poppy cups
beside a road of gravel spit,
potholes stacked with trinkets
of the stars we missed.
I watch you work, sculpting crust.
Crimp marks are your fingerprints.
A hint of sweat, an almost tear
signals menus of your depth.
A fine Rodin, without
the bronze and chilly marble
stuck behind museum glass.
Dancing with a rolling pin
like heroes end a brutal war.
~Janet I. Buck
Janet teaches writing and literature at the college level. Her poetry appears in hundreds of publications online and in print. Visit her website for information on her CDs, books, readings, and appearances. Email.
© 2001 by Janet I. Buck. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 30, 2002.