  |
 |
|
Chopsticks by Janet Buck Have we always chatted this way? In a fury only the dying would know. Stitching our failures and flaws into a quilt, finding the one dry spot under the flooding eaves. I see our threaded skeletons in mirrors at the water's edge. Nothing but cobwebs for hair under our tattered hats -- ragged beaten dandelions bullied and dispersed by storm. You took my punches from the wind and I took yours -- the feeble graft of tenderness that brings lost fingers back to life. You're pitchfork thin from fighting pain. I listen for a moaning river deep inside your courage bells. Our thighs are grabbing for a bench, any kindness, any stretch of level ground. Your hip is aching on your face; I see it scream through all the masks we've used and shed like postage stamps that lose their glue. Strolls turn brittle, laden with rust, whispers of haste akin to a circus of squirrels after the meat of the nut. Comparing lumpy notes of scars, umbrellas for a walking cane, our purses heavy with bottles of pills, we click as chopsticks chase a pea. You'd think this freeze would kill these roots, but here we are -- predictable as thorny weeds that grow through cracks on patios. Once more around the drying lake, raking over diaries of loves we botched. Dirt that might have bothered us is only soil -- a moon that tripped us more than once shines upon the coming grave. © Janet Buck « Home | Contributor Notes » |
|
|
|