Glass

Elaine Bleakney

I was fixed in him; glass would not stream from itself.

I took the window down; the woods now

other woods surrounding. I took myself to a class on Berry Street.

The place for him inarticulate. Tandem, the teacher took me along the metal

rod to river

in glass, the oven. She fished; she knew how much time; I followed.

Swooning the molten glass out high on the rod.

Wrists, wrists, wrists (she said) rolling the rod across my lap.

Someone else kissed, someone else lodged it.

I rowed in a scarred wooden cup.

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