Sealing Wax

Janet Buck


Sealing Wax

Age-old old age.
Its prediction coming true
like a generic horoscope
stretched to fit all carnal fire.
Pin pain stabbing the only ankle
I've been left. My knee,
an also widowed one--
so I press up-hill as salmon do
to lay their eggs.
The eagle of will is a myth,
but I study it nevertheless
for they say it has enormous wings
that shock you when you
get up close.

Muscles dragging
plastic parts.
Grinding and grinning
at gray curls dropping--
feathers into soupy sweat.
Giving up is sealing wax
on a letter I'm not
prepared to send.
I leave my dent in the wind
like the memory of grass.
This treadmill is a joke.
I pad its rubber like
I'm spanking myself
and ordering death
to go to its room.

Janet I. Buck

Posted over on Ariga