The House Of Cards He’s eleven, maybe twelve, on the cusp. Hair tied with a bow that matches his cravat, clean linen, cheeks rosy, eyes downcast. Delicate as a Watteau. He’s balanced a half-circle of cards on the table top, holds the others in his hand, except for the King of Hearts which he doesn’t see hiding in the drawer below. Carefully, he places the last card in line. It will stand or it will fall taking with it the rest of the cards, bow, jacket, cravat, linen, rosy cheeks, innocence and all. Ruth Bavetta Ruth Bavetta is a poet and artist whose poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, American Poetry Review, Tar River Review, North American Review and many other journals and anthologies. Her books are Fugitive Pigments and Flour, Water, Salt (Futurecycle Press), Embers on the Stairs (Moon Tide Press), and No Longer at This Address (Aldrich Press). She has been a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee.
1 Comment
2/3/2020 03:12:36 pm
Wonderful job of making the painting come alive, Ruth. Your poem is also on the cusp. The painter didn't make me hold my breath, but you did.
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February 2025
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