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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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.
