Comatose

by Mara Buck


What value have tears
without prisms?
Infinite color coming from sorrow,
trembling on lashes
to reshape the world
with a sigh.

A golden casket holds my heart.
Fine rubies with a tiny lock,
enameled cloisonné
in rainbow colors
camouflage the missing key.
My brain is trapped within
a crystal belljar,
alienating its electrons
should they
dare to shatter glass.

Other parts are scattered.

Eyes on Saint Lucia’s plate
scowl with browless synergy
to glimpse another sunrise,
overseeing lips
pressed like faded violets
within the vellum of an
ancient text that stilled
fingers yearn to turn,
yet they themselves are stranded
amidst paintbrushes upon a
windowsill in spider’s silk.

But my soul rides on
a firefly outside this room
that knew me well,
and blinks its feeble light
until tomorrow.


* * * * *

Mara Buck writes, paints, and rants in a self-constructed hideaway in the Maine woods. She’s been published and awarded in numerous literary magazines, but she feels most at home on these beloved pages, surrounded by other women writers. Having survived a recent coma, she’s aware that time is finite, so she’s typing faster than ever, with two novels screaming for attention.