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
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
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
Ruth Bavetta is a magician with words.ReplyDelete