Poetry By Janet Buck


Letters Hands Will Never Send

Time is thick, its thighs impossible to part.
Days are numbers, little spots
on calendars your mind won't track.
Three square meals defined by
what you'll pour from bottles,
any kind with leaving proof.
You think you're coy. Pasting shades
across deep sockets of your eyes.
As if you can cram moldy years
into margarine tubs, snap their lids
the way a woman learns
to stretch a meal into eternity.

Those suffer scraps have earned
nice plates and napkin rings
and gentle listen parsley sprigs.
A spritz of reciprocity from children
you have borne and grown and harvested
like rows and rows of yellow corn.
Behind gray glass are smoking signals
wafting through the kitchen nook.
I want to strip and stomp and crush
adages of cover-ups,
but words are such illegal drugs.
The ones you take are sadly not.

Everest of hidden grief so tucked away
it doesn't drain the batteries
of Father's precious black remote.
Zeroed in on putting greens and headline news--
when velvet guts of agony
belong to X-rays under light.
You speak of simple suicide.
My father thinks you're just a Joker
playing with a set of cards,
crying wolf by baring teeth.
Tears have earned lamenting songs,
but as it stands, stay letters
hands will never send.

Janet Buck 2002

More Poetry:
When God Passed Out
Easter Hams

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Bio: Janet Buck is a three-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Three Candles, PoetryBay, Red River Review, The Foliate Oak, Ariga, Runes, Savoy Magazine, Artemis, Sand to Glass, Stirring, The Concrete Wolf, Poetry, Pierian Springs, sidereality, The Carriage House Review, Facets, Kimera, The Pedestal Magazine, The American Muse, and hundreds of journals world-wide. Recent awards include Sol Magazine's 2001 Poem of the Year, The 2001 Kota Press Anthology Prize, The Thunder Rain Award, and first place in Kimera's Poetry Contest 2001. For links to more of her work, see: