Solitaire
by Janet I. Buck
My herd of sheepish bones and all.
They're planters for mortality.
Like thunder rolling in the dark,
assassinating wrapping paper
over very Barbie dolls.
Stretchers of indifference
are postures just to silence you.
I am busy scaring, tearing,
wearing, bearing all the knives.
Haven't time for wishful thinking
elevator button pushing
coffee table tendencies.
The canker sore of being odd.
My thigh a hollow, hollow stump.
A cactus with its needles pointed
at the miles that I must go
before sit and cannot stand.
I am drops of blood in water.
You have windows to my pain.
Frosted well with tiny talk.
Sometimes minds are cheap motels.
Emotion's cattle gathered here.
Drinking from the river fear.
Running scared from wheelchairs.
And yes, I'm playing worry harps.
Writing this like prairie fire.
Knowing if I sit too long,
I'll lose my balance when I stand.
Knowing if I stop to rest,
I'll lose this very sacred round
of motion's blessed Solitaire.
To let the author know what you think about their work, send email to editor@serpentinia.com and we will pass on your message.
Home || Current Issue || Prior Issues || Writing Contest || Staff || Links || Rings
© 1998 Serpentine. All rights reserved.
