Issue 231, Winter 2019
Pindar says the poet must guard the apples of the Muses
like a dragon, but I grew up among Christians,
I pierced my dragon side by scraping off the scales
the way I clean fish in the sink.
A barely saintly gesture, but surgical.
You need gloves, scissors,
and a lot of running water.
And listening to its splash I start to meditate.
I stare at the blue tiles in front of me
not thinking about time, yet thinking about it,
just tiling it, square by square
across the enamel that frames the stove.