Collarbone | Lynn Gilbert
She shows me where they’ve repainted
the blue and black lines on her face
and neck, adding a new target
just above her collarbone.
Her wig frets her in this weather;
the sore place in her throat is back.
She gets so many visitors
I don’t even glance over there
when car doors slam.
Out my window that faces her house,
bright cannas simmer in a line
where the wall of my old garage
once tottered, the whole dilapidation
leaning more and more until
it had to be torn down. Long gone, but
today I imagine the canna blossoms
gold and scarlet against dark scales
of the vanished garage roof,
the ancient shingles shedding grit daily
and the rotted rafters sagging, caved-in
like the hollow above a collarbone.
About the Author:
Lynn Gilbert’s poems have appeared in Arboreal, Blue Unicorn, The Lakeshore Review, Light, Mezzo Cammin, Sheepshead Review, Southwestern American Literature, and elsewhere. Her poetry volume has been a finalist in the Gerald Cable, Off the Grid Press, and Fjords Review book contests. A founding editor of Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, she lives in a suburb of Austin and reads poetry submissions for Third Wednesday journal.