The Kiln God by Paul Fisher

The Kiln God

Half-baked, he sits
on his blistering shelf,
naked and sizzling,
part demon, part elf.

No horns jut
from his hollow head,
but hissy-hot dreadlocks
snake from his scalp.

I turn up the gas
in my little brick kiln
till his stony grimace
outshines the sun.

He’s unaware
that I gave him my eyes
and a tongue long enough
to catch butterflies.

by Paul Fisher

Editor’s Note: This short poem paints a scene with clear detail, drawing the reader through the scene and into the surrealism of the last three lines.

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