Born with bones like broken carrots.
Bandaged with a body cast.
The singular was not a slip.
Only one existed really.
Someone circumcised the trees.
Hills were mountains to my leg.
I was busy dragging parts
like firewood through blinding snow.
Resignation's syllables were
slimey toads on lily pads.
I'd call the art of carry on
my spectacles in raging storms.

Lonesome boots without a mate
would kick the ice of emptiness
across the slick of perfect floors.
Arms were often stand-up comics.
Strings around the straw pretending
I could handle any war.
Wisdom bowls in lukewarm clay
that spun themselves like signatures.
Courage often stopped to visit.
Made the bed when I could not.

Ammonia-scented tragic rainbows.
Crutches were umbrellas folding.
Motion's blessing scampered still
in halos of the morning dew.
Realizing I could stand
despite the missing apparatus
always came with firm surprise.
Apple issues rolled in bruises.
Grace a melon never ripe.
The fact that I could walk at all
was chipmunks on my tennis shoe.

by Janet I. Buck

***First Published in _Shades of December_
 

Demeaning the Quill

In reference to a stump
that replaced
the dream of a leg,
I tossed my dolls
in the toilet
and no one
batted an eye.
They floated
while I sank.

In reference to
lethargic joints
and effort's
closing circus show,
I oiled the parts
with Chardonnay
and you poured
me another glass,
condoned the slur
as a fitting,
acceptable synonym
for generous
rivers of pain.

When I wrote,
and hailstones
pummeled your lids,
when paper cuts
drew blood --
you copped a plea,
an ignorance of stanza beds,
pretended you were
deaf to the rattle of storms,
blind to permanent stains.
But the door to Hell
was cracked.
Light discovers
its own way out.

by Janet I. Buck