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Janet Buck
The Empty NestPage 2
Always walk a mile around
the baby aisle in a store,
unless you need to buy a gift.
Foghorns from an empty nest remind me—
“You were born without a uterus.”
My chest is struck by shooting pains
like asteroids collide with earth.
Owls in a moonlit tree warn me
that my sister’s car seat pinches thumbs.
I try to be the perfect aunt on shopping trips,
end up in a bathroom stall, lock the door,
stay too long, then dump my tears in dirty sinks.
A baby shower’s packed with kids,
pregnant moms, their stomachs
sweet with bowling balls.
One present is a wooden crib—
a perfect shape, a stunning color,
but I can feel sharp slivers in my fingertips.
“Here, come feel this child kick;
I think he’ll star in soccer games.”
I laugh aloud to hide my secret carefully—
dropping pennies in a pocket I don’t have.
Living, breathing curses win—
a pity party minus candles and a cake.
Petunias and pink Dahlias wilt
like surly weeds.
They seem to know—
I even envy birds and straw.
Babies always to take to me
as if white milk is in my breast.
A child ignored says, “Please just stay,
or take me home; I’ll live with you.”
He holds my hand and won’t let go.
Talk about a killer move—
no metaphor, no simile, no consonance
can ever cure.
Why Am I like Chicken Pox?
The water is too deep for me,
storms too thick with tidal waves.
A plastic tub of giant grainy supplements,
a pill for pain I split in two—to save
for times it’s raining harder than it is—
another one to shut down channels of my nerves
that ferry signals to my brain,
another one for allergies,
another one to strengthen all the hapless bones—
they all stand in for Sunday brunch.
I need my sister’s voice to break
the silence of my clotted throat,
bring me tea—my husband’s tired
of sleepless nights because I stir like whisking eggs
and cannot stop or find a place that’s comforting.
Afraid to call, to bother her,
I grab the phone, then put it down
like children sick of broken toys.
Her errand list is longer than the calendar;
each square is taken up with plans.
Why pop a room with full balloons.
Why ask her for her muscled arms to help
with heaps of ironing; she’s too busy
packing for another cruise,
getting toes painted in tomato red
to match the blush above her chin—
my face is pale as ivory sheets,
dry from no one touching it.
I need to hear the family news—
just to know they’re not a dream
I conjured on a mattress pad.
She must think my brittle tongue will whisper
naught but suffering, pass it on like chicken pox.
Why flood her basement with my tears,
leave her messes and a mop.
She can squat to dust the bottom shelves of books,
but will not stop to touch a single word I write—
says her black mascara runs;
she’ll have to put it on again.
Someone told me, “Look at scars
like metals in a war you’ve won.”
I try. I can’t. My shoulders used to hold me up;
now they’re just like twisted hangers
grasping clothes I do not wear.
If I called and really heard her listening,
instead of washing lettuce leaves,
I might dial the phone again.
Let her be the cockroach
jetting underneath a stove,
because the light is startling.
© Copyright, 2015, Janet
Buck. |