Raw Chilies

I grab a ladder, set
its feet to reach the box.
The lid is warped;
tape in ancient carrot curls.
Seven years of Christmases
since eyes rolled
down the stairs of death.
You were sure of landing spots;
I had no rails.

Forever unresigned to loss,
the season always
stings my hands.
Naked trees are bowing
to the underworld.
Frost is thick white rice,
a silver mink on winter stroll.
I always split, always seed
raw chilies without
my rubber gloves.

Hush-puppy fog, the lingering.
Closet almost cellar cold --
memories uncork their wine.
Ornaments of tiny eggs
and paper doves --
their wired feet
caging what I cannot hold.
So this is how it feels to walk
that jagged glass of reminisce.
Dust is like the smell of guns.

Death Does This

There’s a flat copper Collie
in the breakdown lane.
I’ve passed it twice
in two days,
bile rising in my throat.
He is a small lost war
while others rage
on desert sands.

His carcass and his bloody fur
folded like an envelope
no hands will broach.
I’d rather not stare
at carnal’s pewter
in hallways of gold mirage.

But I do. To jostle
the heartbeat to drum.
A picket sign
complaining of imperatives.
I’ve passed it twice
in two days,
wishing I had no eyes.

Contributor: Janet Buck