Scattered pieces of glass, so many
tiny shapes, colors. At first
they seem easy to the fingers
given the job of rearranging
but, when trying to lift just one –
just one particularly small piece,
an astonishing cut surges more blood
than what seems possible.
So, the artist learns to rectify them carefully,
using tools she’s come to master
over long years of study,
into designs more pleasing
to her sensibilities.
Yet, every time she turns her back,
the bits rearrange themselves again
into the chaos of their origin,
the way they were before she began.
Some lie overtly blade side up,
protrude like signs, edges glinting
against the light;
Taste me with your fingers.
I will not be managed, cannot be
The artist keeps trying to form a rose.
But, now, questioning
the rightness of her vision,
she considers whether she should just pour out
the hot liquid bubbling resin
over all of them at once,
just as they had fallen naturally
against the black mat of memory.
Before realizing she’s made any decision, she spills
a flow of pitch she didn’t know she had, a mess
The transparent tar cools almost instantly,
seals the shards into riotous patterns,
swirls of mishap.
© Copyright 2005 Susan M. Botich