Issue 7:
Want
Janet I. Buck
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Goodbyes of Chalk
You gave me no choices.
No moments of madness.
No furies but a hollow wind.
A grave suspends all possibles.
My roots are tired and don't come back --
the soil is dry, this legacy a puzzle pan
without the corners locked in place.
Father's bricks built palaces
with couches no one sat upon.
Clay is bleaching out with age.
Chance is shrinking as I write.
Moccasins of books have holes.
I'd borrow sweaters from your closet,
watch you frown and fold them
with a nagging smile.
Hand you darkness, ask your will
to flip its coin, turn the night
to Ivory soap, stop the moon
from jutting like a sulking wart,
sand its callus with your palms.
I wanted you to spank the sun
for draping me in body casts,
then curl a ray behind my ear.
Make bread of all this wicked yeast
we call the journey's sustenance.
Goodbyes of chalk just gritty ash;
my heart was screaming for a word,
one that cradled slaughtered doves,
told me that a sweet mosaic
would patch a broken bathroom mirror.
I needed love to take
the too much wine I slugged,
dump it down some angry sink.
Wanted lips of Vaseline to pour their grease
on all the wounds of marriages.
Your hands to peck like hungry crows
or hummingbirds at insulin --
check the travesties of silence
native to this grieving world.
~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.