The Trinity Janet Buck Act One. The heap of bones they cleave and joints they cannot save. The sweating glass of who she is dripping leprous tears and leaving rings on beauty's shallow page. Act Two. The strings of hollow eyes like Christmas lights that die before the holidays. With monocles that magnify the bulky cross of wooden strides and balconies of jaws agape like rows of empty seats and arid wells of wanton dreams. Act Three. The fear of falling from the grace of shrouded stares. Ironed starch of saving face across the collar of her soul. But in the hive of darker hours her agony is quelled by reaching out and cherished gifts of loving words that frame and dot her i's and days. They grant her space to spill the soured milk of misery and curtain calls of validation tucked between the lines of praise. That vital breath of confidence adrift on life's revolving stage. The 2River View, 2_2 (Winter 1998)