Ruth Bavetta- Three Poems

Wedding Cake

This is about roses

of spun sugar,

wax-white lilies, clouds

of baby’s breath, violets

that cast no shadows.

This is about a garden

of eggshell prayers, the planting

of seeds not always

in concert, the tyranny

of encumbrance.

The sacrament

piercing her left hand

his left palm, the last

scene at the window, the axe

in the corner.             

Previously published in IthacaLit

Into an Absence When You Least Expect It

Everything that happens
tucks in behind the eyes
like storm darkness, blinding
with the blue of lilacs, the wrath
of red geraniums. He demands
a cup and every bit of space
is taken by his voice.

Previously published in my book, Embers on the Stairs, FutureCycle Press, 2014

 

Settling Accounts

He has a mouth like a bankbook,

all he has to do is open it

and I disagree with him,

whether I do or not.

He’s a crisp, white shirt, a wingtip 

shoe, a black and white TV,

neat, tidy, cool. Chocolate

wouldn't melt in his hand. 

He thumbs through rows

of folders, everything catalogued,

not a bungalow, a child, an ambulance,

a morning, out of place.

He knows where apples belong, paintings

and penitentiaries, butterflies and blood.

Whenever he sees me, he looks up from his ledger

and hands me a paper clip.

             

Previously published in Verse Wisconsin