Читать книгу Imaginary Vessels - Paisley Rekdal - Страница 8

MURANO

It is not miraculous. Only a handful of silica, fire,

and then the blower twirls another knob of gold

on his metal pontil, dipping the tip into a pot

inlaid with spikes to make the burning globe

twist in upon itself as the man breathes out

and a thin neck bulges, wreathes into a spiral

like a unicorn horn; but we’re bored, he’s

bored, blowing and blowing the same shape over.

It takes no effort. He stares off through one

of the factory windows as he does it, beneath a sign,

No Flash, a red line drawn through a cartoon camera

to indicate the work is private, dangerous.

The man’s tongs pinch out a chest, a neck, the crowd

applauding each development though it has seen

the same thing around the corner.

We know what will come next. The man

reaches into the bright elastic to yank

a fat neck forward, to pinch out hair, a shovel-

shaped face; to pull out one thin, bent leg

and then another, the glass itself now tinged with ash

as the fire runs out of it, dimming to topaz,

caramel. He splashes water on the irons

to make them smoke. It must be dangerous, this

material, or why else would we watch?

The blower has a bald patch, earrings, scars.

He dips his tongs once more into the figure

and out come back legs, a tail. The neck twists

and now the little face has a mouth that’s open,

screaming. Transparent hooves tear into the air.

The tail’s curled filament starts to thread

as the pontil pulls away. You want to say

“like taffy,” but don’t. It is not sweet.

Only a spark of heat and then the inevitable

descending numbness. Someone laughs.

Someone takes a photo. For a moment, the room

fills with light behind which we hear

the scissor’s dulling snap.

Our senses return stretched thinner, fine.

We can almost feel the shattering of the glass.