Jonathan Brechner, July 2013


Between the kiln and the fire
lives a secret god.

He knows me.

He comes through my arms,
warms my thighs.
His electric burning images
run currents to my hands
and into the clay.

He guides the knife,
cutting off ears and wings.
He gazes out lopsided eyes.
He deforms the limbs.

Faces emerge—
beautiful abominations
that speak.
Some are my mother,
some weep like babies,
some whisper secrets that crawl
beneath my flesh—
speak my name.

Yes, there are horrors in every creator.

I’ve seen them
come from my fingers,
tearing fissures
where there were none.
And when they enter the kiln
the fire burns them, freezes them
like terror into shape.

Promote. Poetry.
FacebookTwitterGoogle+PinterestBlogger PostTumblrGoogle GmailLineYahoo MailRediff MyPageKindle ItGoogle BookmarksShare