O oven-mitts for Hell’s smoldering gates,
help me grab the bars and throw them open.
I don’t know if I’m in or out, but let me through
when the fire spreads. If the dust at my feet
is the ashes of heaven, I’m going to the other side.
O conduit for the ubiquitous flux of digital current,
give me a signal. Let smart phones everywhere sing,
that’s a fly circuit you’re crowdsourcing on,
brother. We’ll identify the transit of a new exoplanet
and scan its spectrum for sand.
O false augmentation under the milk of human kindness,
how can the scar of your insertion improve
the site of the body’s first food & mouth’s first kiss?
What mad man of materials science
replaced flesh with a cold bag of gel?
O ceramic plate serving the Earth’s finest crust,
out of the volcano with the stench of brimstone,
out of the kiln, shaped by hands and a wheel,
from fine ash to pliable clay,
site of so many thousand meals.
O ornamental jug of hand-blown glass,
we wonder at your prismatic museum colors
and, from your gas-fired industrial kin,
we drink the finest scotch, the driest wine,
the purest water, the last dregs.
Stephen Brockwell is a small business owner and poet. His third book, Fruitlfly Geographic, won the Archibald Lampman Award in 2005. His Complete Surprising Fragments of Improbable Books will be published by Mansfield Press in 2013.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan