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