Glass

Dark Sprout by Brian Frus // Jacksonville University Glass Department

I was grateful

for the air conditioning

on the ride to the studio,

already alight with adrenaline

in anticipation of what fires might await.

Here is the professor’s desk,

holding class in cauldrons of molten glass.

Here is where sorcerers clothed in breathable cotton

wield glowing gazing balls at staff length. Jacks scrape

against hardening glass; my fumbling touch

is not hard enough or too much, ever adjusting

under the constant influx of instruction.

I listen, spidering my fingers

along a rolling rod, contemplating form. Aesthetic.

I grab at my glass arbitrarily in search of the organic

but this is not my medium.

I prefer the stool off to the side,

guzzling water, far enough away from alchemy

but not out of the heat. Sweat drips

yet masters never lose their grip, smoothing shapes

with hands of aged newspaper.

Any set of practiced hands

is sure to capture my glance

and from yours I can’t look away.

What is it that you are made of?

This is your every day,

a constant chosen crucible.

You stand fearlessly

before the murmuring bellies

of dragons. I never knew

you to be so in tune, I never knew

the ripples of gleaming forearms moving fluid

in the flowing waves of energy.

In between flashes of heat

the master gaffer gathers laughter

and swings the rod in circles

as preconceived perceptions

slowly soften in the fire.