The Orpheus Vase
Émile Gallé, verre parlante, 1888-1889
The broken world now grit beneath his feet,
he spins another planet from the flames
twists the pedestal base, a frozen river,
adds soot to darken the greens, then gold
for bands of insect wing. He casts the lovers
in amber and with a wheel engraves a verse
about the cursed obsidian chambers of the heart,
a haunting song that hastens its own unraveling.
Barefoot over folding lava and pitch,
the bright cup of the world whispers to a love
something about flowers again, and rain.
Traveling toward the cold lip on the cup of spring
her eyes have turned to whirlpool galaxies.
He reaches out, she’s nothing he can hold.
Kelly Houle’s poems have been published in Calyx, Crab Orchard Review, Radar Poetry, Red Rock Review, Sequestrum, and others. She is also a painter.
Amethyst Review 