JANET I. BUCK
'Warm Sorbet'

Caught in tribal rituals
of cleaning out death's stuffy closet--
running my fingers across perfume.
Bedroom slippers pliant soft
like wasted petals of some rose.
Memories in pillow feathers--
sharp center wicks in dovetail spray.

Allergic to emotion's boil,
but hungry to keep your face alive.
Grief's Chernobyl brewing there--
its classy curves--a profile of profundity.
Old Rimauds of agony
gather wits, address a canvas,
moorings of a sorry moon.

Quiet as a programmed guard
who stands beside the London Tower.
You breed that kind of reverence.
Art is tugboats for a yacht
and warm sorbet that doesn't
hit the clearing spot.
I spray for swarms of silent ants
and promise I will play your silk
like snowflakes melting in my hand.