Janet Buck

Scene One:    Decent health.  A pulse with money in the bank. 
                     Running through a forests glade 
                     on feet you never think about.   

Scene Two:     A heart attack.  A surgery.  Stockings on ten granted toes. 
                     A size too tight.  Gangrene sets in.  Knives and saws 
                     detach old bliss.  One above a poisoned knee.  One below. 
                     Legs, a page of scrapbooks gone. 

Scene Three:   Rigor mortis of the dark that pockets suns, 
                     stashes them in places where the devil sleeps 
                     and files his nails on passing tombs. 

Scene Four:    A woman calls to yank you from despairing caves.   
                     She knows the leather gist of scars.  Her smile 
                     a flat anathema to trials tearing up your soul. 

Should I say unsayables?  

The air is dry with severance and prayers seem 
gnats on fingertips looking at Mt. Everest.  

Horrors float in urine cups of destiny; sometimes
blood seems everywhere, but in the heart where it belongs.
Phantoms rule the muscles left.  The sea of pain is never sweet.  

Seizures rule and gods do not.  The only consolation prize is 
strength you never knew you had.  
You all want to paint the mirror black. 	

E-mail Janet

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