The Art of Alchemy
by Adam Jacobs
Slowly and surely
the cauldron tipped o’er
in me—
she was swinging
from a crucifix-spit
Now my house is on fire
—Not the inspired—
But the stop, drop, and roll fire
When I breathe, sweet air,
I roast.
And the visions seem soldered
To my silhouette
And my soul swirls in a pirouette
Round a stagnant epithet, then spots:
This is not me.
THIS IS NOT ME!
The ghosts of yesteryear
Are dressed in masquerade:
Fleshed out inside ideas
You only see the filigree.
May I drop the past like a droplet
into the vast.
sink
in
everything
Long ago when I watched my mother play
And my father play, and brother
A trident strident minuet;
I watched disturbed as this triumvirate
tuned its catgut flatten.
Too thin,
to utter any chordA deep chord
Like an onyx bur
beloved in velvet magmaBelow this acne-pocked up sky.
White heads glisten like tinsel
Ornaments on the broad black brow of night.
I hope forgiveness falls from this firmament
And that love rises like rain hitting ash.
For if I die,Maybe then,
My crucible
will be point-blank toward the skyContact Adam Jacobs at bowofrain@gmail.com.
