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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