Volume 3, Number 6
by Janet I. Buck
Admitting this disgusting tale.
In tune, so very much the same
as Ada's strife in movie-magic,
Eros deep of the Piano and its keys.
One hand on the chopping block.
The other on my twisted thigh.
For better, worse, or both perhaps:
"We did what seemed was best for you."
What was left of riven limbs
became an artichoking leaf.
A stranger in a foreign land
among the necks of daffodils.
The looking glass, a goblet
with a broken stem.
My stump a steaming submarine
like Ada's finger once removed.
Its fabric was the cast of hope
they left alone upon the shore.
Very purple body wash
of courage under heavy fire.
The page will scream what I cannot.
This acid, utter naked part.
The film was staged. My life is real.
Admitting this disgusting tale,
I'm doing through the intercom
of very, very needy art.