Grace dissolves the graceless rendering rock 
stone again
bone again 
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. 

Rozell, 2021.

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