Issue 17, April 1998
Janet Buck - Three Poems
Winter First
Gibraltar is a regal rock and
something that you see in me.
The purple mountain majesty of
stoic purses matching dreams
despite the shoes on closet floors
that never had a job to do.
The manger of regretting skies.
Prometheus and Zeus in bed.
Rolling over for a kiss.
Rocking in the tides of fear
and keeping this inside.
Gibraltar is a real rock.
That lines a civilizing shore.
Something that I’m really not.
Mine are pebbles. Stones perhaps.
The fluster of an avalanche.
Perfect litters of a smile.
Self-indulgent tears aligned.
It shouldn’t be a huge surprise.
The order of release is this:
Winter snowflakes have to fall
before you have July.
The Vapor Trail
Its path defined by looking in
and counting pennies in a jar.
A nickel for a stanza here.
A quarter for the thaw.
I’m selling syllables, I know.
Like Girl Scout cookies
at the door. The buzzer
louder every time the baggage
of an aching heart is dropped
like bombs from passing planes.
Jet streams of emotive skies.
The vapor trails of bleeding pens.
A treasure chest of coral reefs
that somehow pops its angry lid
and lands upon the page.
This is where the moonlight sings
and whispers something in my ear.
This is where I gather strength.
Relinquishing the need to use
the shoehorn of a stoic smile
to force my toes in normal shoes.
The long giraffes of wandering
through forests wet
with where I’ve been.
Introspection’s porcupine.
It has a chance to cross the road.
This where I clean the gun
of coming home to me.
Certain Skunks
No one would have guessed.
That underneath the circus tent
and sleeping bags of sweeping skirts
were vapor trails of broken dreams
and sewer pipes of slimy tears.
The only time she faced the mirror
was under spells of artistry
or lots and lots and lots of wine.
Cinderella’s slipperland of
all the ads for perfect thighs.
The scarlet letters of her bones
that littered nights like
driftwood buried in the sand.
Certain skunks are hard to shoot.
Impossible to find.
He understood the leaves of eyes.
Why she swept them off their feet.
It had to do with self-defense.
It had to do with style.
He waited like a hummingbird
for negligees and satin robes.
Changed the reeds of clarinets.
Wrote the scales of real love.
And in the end, a symphony
with hearts in lieu of violins.
Freedom’s eagle poised to fly.
The coda was a miracle.
Summer trees with Robin eggs
and trumpets of a smile.
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