PoetryRepairShop
Contemporary International Poetry

issue 9903:44
Janet I. Buck

Wedding chimes turned tangled knots
when jobless stole what
little scraps of light we had--
harbors tucked away in albums
crammed beneath a sagging bed.
Marriage bloomed in nervous shades.
Hyde Park shrubs at midnight mass,
with no one out for company
except depression's practiced wolves.
Saber-tooth saws of words
were knives that had a place 
in every pocket of the dark.
You judged the world as aphids 
meant to steal a rose.
Every carrot fate I cropped
you splintered same as winter wood.
Divorce was merely semen crusted--
dried behind the fact of rape.

I burned you.  You burned me.
The way you made us wear your need
like tennis shoes that didn't fit.
Smoke was, well, the only bird
that nested in our chimney flue.
We almost locked the sliding door
like switchblades snapped in self-defense.
Signing papers, summer breezes--
sledding down a mountain's neck.
I played what little cash I had
as fingers plugging saxophones.
Bitter's gristle--satin blessings--
set beside your silent vents.
I promised you my faithfulness.
Saddled up a cheerful horse.
Hooked oxen to a Christmas sleigh
since reindeer couldn't pull the weight.
The ice, of course, became so hard
that driving it got easier.
Booze became our slide trombone:
its oil dripping on cement.