Catherine McGuire

The Glassblower's Tale

My face drinks the heat
from the gloryhole
like a demon made for Hell.
No fainting novice, I
poke the silica shimmy
the molten orange sea whose breath
can melt acrylic clothes to your skin.

My blowpipe lifts a gather of glass
on its tip, burning saffron bud.
I twirl the rod at the pace of viscous honey
flowing. This is where no theory counts;
it’s all in the dance—
the willingness to go along, lend myself
to red heat and lavaflow
follow the transformation;
to guide with my breath.

Knowing when to breathe life into the lump—
not so easily taught! But once you have it,
the joy of the bubble becomes
intoxicating, irresistable.
And so it was: I could not resist
seeing them glow with scarlet lust
breathing my bubble of love around them
each one a fire flower, my only,
until the cooling left a brittle shell
and my desire searched the flames again.