Phyllo Over Crushed Pecans
When I am an old web of sparse silver hair,
a littering of petals faded in the sun,
will I recall the candle I was
as something lit, burning down to metal plates
of graveyards sulking under clouds
or just some wick of chastity.
Did I arch a raven's wing
against the onyx of the dark --
put it in its feeble place,
answer cries of lost Lenores,
fight snuffing of this frail peace.
Use my arms for kindling a snug embrace
or dress them in a dollar bill.
Was I more than lint on love?
Did I scribble giving's law,
kiss the chasmed cracks of lips
or spread their seasons with my jaws.
The time sock shrinks.
A threshold looms in crumbled brick.
An hour sits on saggy chaise;
its cover is my parchment skin,
thin as phyllo on pecans.
Serpents of these question marks,
chameleons wiggle fangs and strike.
Whose bedroom slippers did I wear?
A size too big in surly fire?
Wood too wet for striking off
compassion's match?
Did I turn the turbid stone of selfishness,
wear it down with waterfalls.
- Janet I. Buck
***First published in _Comrades_
to Janet
/ to Moongate
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