13thWR

AFTERGLOW

You breathe
the light snore of a cat
that got its mouse,
cleaning its paws
beside a fire.
Relishing game
more than reward.
We remain
rustling in sacred piles.
Sated is an attitude--
"I love you too" tattooed
in blue and pulling
color from the sky.
The tip of a used wick
falling in soft candle wax.
Content about
the scent it leaves--
loneliness extinguishing.

The firm cliché of afterglow
on Saturday in busy beds.
Sweaty puddles
inside every artery.
Raining reciprocity.
Arms are folded envelopes--
perfect crepes
across your chest.
A little tension
in your muscles,
telling me our love
will stay a waterfall
tumbling over permanence.

QUANDARY

Up comes the subject again:
"It's time you dyed your hair.
The gray is growing more pronounced."
Mother returns to her chair
as if she has just let
a muddy dog in the door
of a rich girl's home.
Paw prints on the ivory carpet.
Ignorant of brown I know.
I laugh and think of justice blaring.
Commentary falling at my
aching feet like fresh white snow.
Flesh straps slipping from a body's
ebbing claim on life.
She doesn't think I know these clothes.
A burned marshmallow
with its coal peeled back.

I play with coarse, bleached strands--
nuance, unused perfect strings
for violins just tucked away
in attics of my unaware.
Your words come back like
lavender and honeysuckle in the spring:
"The one thing you can't kill is death itself."
You said it like a child licks a lollipop.
So sure of color, sure of sugar,
certain of its knowledge stick.
I dig again to find the time you gave in,
pitched the Clairol in the trash,
let tarnish have its rightful place.
But it wasn't an hour, a minute, a day,
a way of life that blended rain
with puddles, pockets, purses, earth.
I dig again to find the time you
scrubbed a bowl with bleeding hands
to see if silver spiritual was solid stuff
or just a coat on cheap antiques.

- Janet I. Buck