by Joshua Gage
The evening brings guests
to a barren table.
I am a pot in the kitchen,
boiled black.
There is no fire,
only scattered lily petals.
I am a vineyard
pruned by frost.
A cracked urn. An eggshell
bereft of white or yolk.
The boat drowns beneath the weight
of a curtain’s ripping. Its nets
draw tears from beneath the waves.
I have become a temple
built around the toll
of an eclipse. My lamps
are dry. Their smoke guides pilgrims
who sweep the threads of their prayers
beneath my cobwebs.
If I squeeze tight enough,
I can hear the pulse
of a dove’s wings. Fingers
become the muslin to bind
the nails’ butchering.