A Fuzzy Watch

Neck just poised beneath the ax,
never enough deep blue
in sapphire carats of the sky.
Rash of clouds awaits our skin;
clinging storm brews its pot of livid tea.
These August days aren't sugar cubes.

When you call, we hurry through the happiness,
speak only of the cloying grief.
Its package might be soup cans at a rifle range
no one hits with bullet fire.
Pendants of our fairy tales
washing down a toilet's throat.

"They found a tumor growing there
among the garden's flashy leaves."
A poison mushroom living in love's casserole,
its edges frequented by scorch.
I roll the news like rosaries
in sweaty palms as if the tribune were my own.

When you call, we pick the dirt from cameos
pinned against our sagging breasts.
Put the arrow to the string,
pass these heaving boulders on.
Agate fist mooning for a wall to split,
agape will deliver us.

I see us there on river banks
staring at slick passing fish,
their fins like moiré vases scored
by beauty we won't see again
when bathroom mirrors collect
soft vapor of the years.

We strain our backs, embalm our tears,
drain our styes, hang our ghosts
on clotheslines of the needy bake.
Spaghetti pots, once full, are not.
Upholstery of flesh at fade,
a fuzzy watch too near the steam.

— Janet I. Buck