Swagazine Six

Janet Buck -- Tilting Urns

Beautyís ashes once removed.
Optimism sliding off like saddles
on a bounding horse whose
fueled fear is banging all the trees
in forests, shaking them eternally.
Motionís pony cornered often.
Cougar knives in glistened rows.
Edges browned by tragedy and missing
limbs like suckers of a promise dream
that God had given Mom and Dad,
then pulled away so very fast,
it broke and snapped like sugar peas.
The ancient rhyme of mariners,
a teardrop chorus rising, well,
despite my efforts silicone
to stop the long stampeding roar.

I was too much celery seed.
Writing checks for surgeries
was just the only, lonely brand
of dental floss we had in hand.
The chalice of endurance stayed.
Its fragrance unmistakable
as honeysuckle on a vine.
I would worship rise above
like totem poles or temples built
upon a dune of shifting sand.
Writing this is tilting urns.
Silk worms spinning something
that I knew, I fought, I had to catch
so I could let it go again.
The pestilence of perfect thighs.
Reversing all the inner-plagues.
A doorknob with my fingerprints,
but very, very hard to turn.




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