Poems by Janet Buck

I recall its chill like a mug of tea,
warmth stolen and stashed,
the sun hard as a penny
not worth picking from unlevel ground.
It was a classy bin
for uncontainable grief.
A place of corks, of stuffing rites,
of sweet injected silicone.

It dyed our cobwebs blonde and auburn.
Sent our ghosts to beauty parlors,
gave us facials, cosmic lifts,
and knifeless plastic surgery.
I wanted to fall asleep
in its wooden arms, under the stairs,
the creaking ones my legs
and heart refused to climb.

The bottles there had
elegance I did not own.
Their graceful necks
that turned a crisis to a swan.
Made hash of all our tougher meat.
The real estate of easiness
that didn't shine much otherwise.
Fallen moons inside its cave
were much more photogenic there.