The Millennium Issue:
Past
Janet I. Buck
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Aching Vacancy
I was only three years old
when cancer's ugly dinosaur
ate contents of my father's joy,
left his mattress and his heart
a lop-sided saddle with bruises
and cracks, a fact of life
to ride regardless of the heat.
With empty scrapbooks in my pen,
I do not grieve your death
in normal, comprehensive ways.
Its aching vacancy exists.
I cannot argue its point,
but have no real grist for poetry,
excepting sand of a sealed urn.
Photos steeped in sepia
are grass-clippings
in a smelly can my fingers
hate to rifle through.
I've thought of you on nights of proms:
you'd buff my shoes,
paint my toenails in the dark,
teach me how to kiss a man,
thread a needle, shape a pie.
I've thought of you on wedding days:
you'd have a hair brush in your hand,
comb the knots of nervous tangles
settled near moist baby's breath.
Leper spots of sadness sit
with venom in their secret moles.
My love for you a string-less harp
on stages of unopened plays.
The copyright of your morning smile
belongs to God or rings
around agnostic moons.
I wish I knew your apron bows.
Had your scent in borrowed sweaters
piled on and buttoned up
when times were ice and I was cold.
~Janet I. Buck
An award-winning author, published in hundreds of literary magazines, Janet has also written several books. For more information on her publications and readings, visit her website. Email.
© 2000 by Janet I. Buck. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 23, 2002.