Grace dissolves the graceless rendering rock
time and time again
I coat the palms of my hands
with a working class mentality.
Having made this
I forget what to do with it.
The chair she sits in
is a brandished throne
a tent throne
a throne to pack when the weather looks foul
and the stars a little too sparkly.
What is in her head these days?
I see two eyes rubbing together
sparking a wildfire. Dangerous.
Yet still she cries, “throne, throne!”
to the wasteless plenty.
Shall I say, I have gone through the barren lands
scavenging thrones and rocks and bones
and have watched the ragged few demystify
mortality, comforting the howling dogs
with bowls of porcelain fruit and sunlight.
I should have been the wind, then,
for all the howling it would do.
The great earth a great cradle
rocking gently, Mother sings her silly songs
thumbing the steel knife out of her child’s pocket.