|Roman blown glass hydria from |
Baelo Claudia (4th century CE)
Fit in my glittering ruby red shoes
I march like a matador - lure the bull;
incense the Taurus with cloak swirling – full,
faith in youth to suffer no fatal bruise.
Fit as glass slippers for dancing by twos;
I’m pestled in mortar, rapped in fine tulle.
Shapen and molten in fire – beautiful;
‘til midnight exposed the glassblower’s ruse.
I run down the shore ill fit for a race;
panting, lamenting, tripped up by the rush
of a broadband of waves beating full chase -
manic - I daily tempt them to drown us.
Faster, faster - but I fall on my face.
Listen! A wisp of silence - a soft hush.
I awake in a darkness snugly fit
in a Parson’s Cupboard over mantle -
an old pitcher hung by thumb latch handle,
kissed by the glassblower’s pipe on cracked lips.
Self-made wounds of agony I admit
in songs of sorrow and love’s canticle;
I long to hear the soft tap of sandal,
lift of door latch, my freedom to permit.
Release our bond of beauty with a beast!
Reveal a code to spring this prison door!
Recall the smith of glass, the holy priest.
Repair my lip so parched, by sun, and scorn -
Remember - that you need me at your feast;
Refit with kiss --- the Agonist forlorn ---