Atoll Obsidian
Obsidian, Part 8

 

He carved.
Shaped, chiseled.
What mattered was perfection
of form, smoothness of line.
Looking at these creations it seems
they change in every eye.
For this one, the large curve drops
half an inch, the V cut smooth;
for another, the stone lips
open wider, just a bit. 
Black stone changes,
transforms.

The elders say
the nephilim fell to earth
at Dodekanisa, Seraph's Rest, were trapped
in raw obsidian—magma angels.
The sculptor cuts, searches
in the cliffside. One chisel tap
breaks off this block,
moves it into sunlight.
It is good, raw. Throw the rope
around it, haul it back.

Inspection: hands exploring,
calloused palms caress
this polished black.
Eyes widen, shift, take in.
The sculptor sets
his chisel down and stares.
This pieces needs no
shaping, polishing,
no carving.
This unformed lump of brilliant
black can only be
                    must be
a nephil. Here, today.
Rope again, and haul;

he takes it to the circle
of obsidian guards,
erects it, stands back,
waits.

The crowd gathers, seeing
one piece, all its forms
the same. No artifice, no touch
of cold iron. It rests.

 

 

 

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Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Literary Yard, Big Windows, and Locust, among others.