Janet I. Buck


It echoed as a slice of pie
from Faulkner's tale: "A Rose for Emily."
Sofas covered, never moved.
An empty birdbath in the yard
between two willows holding hands.
Secrets safe in gauze of dust,
talcum buffing the old hurts
like snow around an ancient grave.

Love happened here -- then waned.
Its navel still indents my flesh.
Nine children peeled off baby fat.
She kept their tiny teeth,
the last bastion of innocence
drowning in a whiskey glass
the color of cider but not.

An attic of wall-to-wall bottles,
necks rubbing like toes, clanking
weak music when wind swept through.
Lies rattled here above our heads.
She organized the worst of times,
lined their slippers in downy fleece.
You make your choices, then exist.

She tissue-wrapped his worn black shoes,
tired bibles kissed with spittle,
rubbed by long and nimble arms
stout on a mission of war.
She hauled the box up creaking stairs
that whispered as each plank replied.
Sunlight struck a windowpane --
graffiti perched in cobweb doves
to tame the forfeits of amour.

Location: Medford, Oregon
Occupation: Writer
Email: jbuck22874@aol.com
Website: http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html
Publications: Stirring, The Pedestal Magazine, Artemis, CrossConnect, Offcourse,Tattoo Highway, Facets, Pierian Springs, Poetry Magazine.com, The Foliate Oak
Books: Calamity's Quilt, Reefs We Live, Before the Rose, and Ash Tattoos
Awards: from Kimera, L'Intrigue, Sol Magazine, and Kota Press

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