Night watch

He sits atop a high roof
over triangular spaces made safe
from the escape of hot air, rising.
Basement is dirt, all skeletons cleared.
He takes care of things.

In return, asks for a click and flash
perhaps a line of verse
penned in his slim-lined pocket book.
Save napkins for chins and foreheads.

He takes care.
Wide thumbs untie muscle
knotted and tight from
carrying heavy things.

With saw-toothed promises, he
parades a spectrum of lady images:
high contrast black and white
haze streaked halo
colored lips and nails,
each for my choosing.

We like the ones in box stores,
their thin straps, confident step.
Tired eyes almost hide
the low glow of brewing embers,
they wait for our oxygen
to ignite them for roasting.

He takes care of things.
Corsage pinned delicate,
finger slides under georgette
touching skin only as intended.

Always controls the drip
drip, never neglects
tight fit O-rings, washers.

Today’s image:
loud stomp boots planted in tall grass,
as the tornado far south spins new winds.
They lift a wave of fine hair from his collar.

That is where I fit in.



What fills my Pause

Two seconds of silence,
I breathe you in
deep, like smoke that holds.

Raw iron gobbles you up
and I feel the burn of selfish blood.
It carries you to all the better parts of me.

And you say,
Outside my window the geese are returning,
can you hear them?

Yes.

I too will come back,
My lady bug feet
will circle the white lace
that diffuses your light.



curtain, opaque

The filaments of exposed roots that hang free
over the banks of the Macoby
remind me of the fringe along the edge
of her designer shower curtain.

I inherited this fifteen year old
fabric along with the dog, house and
baby quilt that still hides the broken plaster
on the upstairs bedroom wall.

I did not choose this tapestry shroud
that dims my morning shower
nor had I ever considered it’s absence.
Today, I roll, discard and replace its heaviness
with sheer translucence.

Finally free and fully able
to see all that my lover desires,
consumes, inspires.

Open like a spring window,
exposed by our own design.



Untitled Safety

I watch you like paparazzi from the back row,
capturing subtle intimacies on a blood-red retina.
With a quick glance over shoulder,
silver eyes spill through my iris,
darkening skin cheek to chest.

Grey scruff stands on end,
anticipating my slow scrape
straight-razor shave.

With a nonchalant weave through
metal chairs, you find me.
Your clumsy fingers present to me

the secret color proofs, previews.

Anxious, you mispronounce your own name.

It is too late for playing it safe.
Already dark room ready,
you return to me
naked but for the thin black socks
that protect us from nothing.



It is not tortoise shell

It is not tortoise shell,
this comb I hold
paralyzed in the air.

Motionless above my crooked part,
I forgot for a moment that you are gone,
I forgot I am a woman without reason
to comb tangles from her hair.



About the author:
Jennifer VanBuren lives in Baltimore with her husband and two young sons. While trained in the fields of science and education, she has always considered herself a closet poet. Over the past year, she has been fortunate have her poetry appear on various sites on the Internet, receive a Pushcart Nomination and come out in print at M idwifery Today and Poetry M otel. You can check out her other publications and work at her site, mannequin envy

© 2009 Word Riot