Tumbleweeds on Desert Floors

Janet I. BUCK

TUMBLEWEEDS ON DESERT FLOORS

When you died, my sister and I flipped a grimy nickel
to decide which of our salt-stoned cheeks
would tackle the stash of memories
huddled in darkness under your bed.
I lost.

My hands went under the skirt,
felt sorrow's marsh and bygone years.
My heart a slowly ticking bomb.
Dust balls did their little cartwheels--
tumbleweeds on desert floors.

Reminiscence in a maze --
love is a wide word, a wicked presence
when it hides in the curled lip
of a recent grave. There was nowhere to turn
but into the downed sails of pilfered dream.

When I dropped on my knees to look,
forced my fingers into this void, this cheap cadeaux,
your gritty plumes of tenderness
sat felled, still twitching like snakes
who buffet a while before finales snap batons.

She wanted to know what I found.
A melted vial of Revlon Red
that once had graced your china lips.
Sonnets of your terry slippers
printed with your clawing toes.

Photographs like sticky pie dough in my palms.
Lost apron strings, sashes of unspoken wars.
Your husband's tie clip pinned inside a padded bra.
Roamings of the quiet tears in privy cache,
annals of your loneliness.

TABLE OF CONTENTS NEXT PAGE