All season the star flowers slept
like stones in the branch,
unable to rise, cry out, change,
like the fetus crouching on the mantle,
the negative my friend cast in clay
and poured in glass heated to lava,
kiln-firing it for days.
like so many others, exploded,
as I imagined it would—
weeping the long gestation,
stalled dark, pushing,
the muscle opened with a knife,
and with clear filament sewn.
return to top