September 2002 / Volume Three / Issue One
Janet I. Buck
Me on Ice

Iíd pop a cork, pour a drink
as sure as house keys slip and turn.
I liked this plastic paradise where
storms wore masks and didnít split.
It thickened scars and courted sleep.
Bottles were an agile spotter;
I was secret acrobats,
steadier outside myself.
It tummy-tucked those fallen moons.
Made the night digestible.

Our fights are all my mind
recalls these seven years.
Married on an August day,
but living in a bed of snow.
You in languished loneliness;
me on ice and liking it.
We were not a perfect stitch
for wounds that didnít want to close.
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