The Red of Earth and of Robins

                                                                         I am told that, 
                                                    when molded improperly,
             if failed-to-press-out air remains in this spongy
              body of possibility I am making
                                              it will explode.

I am also told that this is not ideal,
           that this kiln, a bitter tempest,
        wasn’t made for that sort of thing.
         I wonder if you know any different
                       because I think we both do.

                                      Instead we are to press,
                                                               to stretch,
                                                               to pull
this skin of the Earth until
it is thin enough to temper.
Shape its body with room to shrink.

There is a sweetness in making together
                                                        we agree.
In the collaborative world-building
          of Earths and of non-Earths
Earthenwares even, although
it’s hard to speak of sweetness there.

                 You are making your archipelago,
                   and I am eating up the sun
        and I am saying something like
I am not convinced of Communism
because we have both been treated
so poorly by the masses. 

And maybe this is true

                               but I think we both know that it is silly
to assume that masses can even treat well, to begin with
to assume that there is
any agency
anyway, anywhere, anymore.

There’s a metaphor somewhere around here
                      I’ve been keeping for a rainy day.
Something about hormones and shoe sizes,
the shrinking of bodies and of vessels
                          the making of pots
             and the smoking of pot
    the breaking of glass and
the glass shop on the corner,
            the blowing of God
as she peaks, her hair as curly as my mothers,
     beyond the ridge that spooks me as I sleep.

I say that we are a commune and that this is lovely.
                         That communes can be two faggots
                                                                       two horses
                                            a cowgirl and a cowboy
                                            and a man and his dog,
all of us enjoying the heat of the summer
come clawing its way well into the fall.

Maybe communism is like this?
The molding of a trail through Mt. Morris
                       the laughing of boys as they brave
the steep hill of slag we’ve been looking out over
on the backs of their bikes
in the backs of their houses.
                                    And here we are hoping
                             that if any of ‘em are trans,
                that maybe ours will be the first
bodies of possibility
they will have seen,
stretched out over stone ruins
           tempered in the kilns
shrunken, not shattered.

What a spectacular way to die.
we’ll whisper out over the hills. 

I read once that the red of a robin’s breast
is the blood of Christ spilled out upon it’s plumage
                         as it plucked a thorn from his crown.

               I read again that the red of a robin’s breast
                                                      is an immortal wound
                                 punctured by that same thorn,
                                             not his blood, but hers

I wonder which is which
and I know which is yours.
Or, I think I know which is yours
as I touch the red Earth
and feel the red sky.