Molt

by | May 6, 2014 | Poetry

Place me shattered in a corner
of the fire with a little water

and a wheel of salt. Then
with cylinders of cold stone, roll

the bubbles from wet orange
glass: my giant briny arms are satellites

scratching at the wool in God’s eyes.
So many times the firebirds drop

their feathers, mistaking me for lightning.
You will keep a laugh in my glass-

bottomed throat; I promise
to always see through your tongue.

 

 

Photo By: Yogesh Mhatre

About The Author

Brendan Carrick

I am a Chicago native and an assistant chief manuscript editor at the University of Chicago Press. I studied poetry under Bill Knott and John Skoyles at Emerson College, where I received an MA in Publishing and Writing in 2003. When time permits, I retreat to my basement studio in the 1890s farmhouse I moved into a couple years ago, and I paint or draw. A sample of my artwork can be viewed at http://www.etsy.com/shop/gutterbucket.