I reached into a kiln to scoop a molten orb onto the end
of a pipe, spun sand into glass, blew air into fluid fire
and made myself the lip of a bottle, smoothed
against a charred rag. I extended the neck
so far it began to smell like saltwater. The rotation
birthed an impossible body, hardened
into transparency, and made me stretch my skin
so thin no one could see me. I called it a type of freedom.
And in this way I slip by, spiral so fast you still
stare through me—a black
tube of glass pitched from your fist, I’m gone
before you blink: a whistle, a woman
who shatters into silica, sharpens by breaking.
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