Volume 3, Number 6
Brillo Pads & Body Casts
by Janet I. Buck
Ironically it's what was missing
from the waste of paste of
Fate mistaking pride and other
power tools for ultra-violet
fortitude regarding all the
bump and grind of bones
that grew in some spots
not in all of them like
grass forgotten by a hose.
This is what was body-casting.
Mattresses were Brillo Pads.
The plate of femininity defined
by misdemeanors, guarded tears,
that never could decide if
it was really safe to fall.
Cops of eyes would pull her over.
Then begin the cruel frisking.
Whisking all the eggs of mind
and dumping them in burning skillets.
He was hot pads by the stove.
Made her feel as though her bones
were not just dented cans to place
behind the rows of perfect ones.
Dichotomies of absent parts
are not the substance of the dawn.
The traffic court of weighing in.
Candor's gavel on her thumbs.
The aftertaste of eyes is hard.
Taking off the scabs of heart
was learning lush is in the head.
That in the game of growing faith,
a pair of satin, satin thighs
is not the only, only card.