Title: Another Poem
Tags: amputee Buck poetry
Blog Entry: Some Stones Hurt I was ten years old when I saw the Venus de Milo posing on clean gray tile. Shutter clicks were going off like car alarms. And I was ashamed of her stone. Of the air where her arms were destined to be. I wondered why she had no scars. If she hated the eyes -- their rabid dogs, their pigeon-dropping cloying orbs. I wanted to give her my clothes. Pass her a bottle of glue. “She’s broken,” I said to my aunt. “Why is she here -- in a place of respect?” No answer emerged from her tongue. I thought about my missing leg, its carcass and its animal. Later I would share her shape. Duck cameras like a waiting knife pressed to a throat of crumbling sand. She must have taken a fall. “Someday we’ll chat,” I said to her, “over a meal of oysters and art about the presence of grit in the shell, about the impotent rage.” by Janet I. Buck
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