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Absence & Ache by Janet I. Buck If this were plain old age -- that ugly, stubborn customer of all our whittled destinies -- perhaps I could sleep after watching you struggle to walk. No hands. No feet. So cheerful as they bring you legs of carbon, and plastic and screws. Your elbows swing like hangers without shirts in a trailer shaken by storm. The vacant air, your silhouette of avid sadness lingering with cobwebs on the graying walls. At twelve, you're far too young to memorize how sunlight blisters verdant leaves, how clouds deliver piercing hail -- way too young to wear mortality's sleeve in empty pockets where fingers should dangle and dream. © Janet I. Buck « Home | Contributor Notes » |
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