Glass Flowers

The young artist
has her auburn hair in a bun
so it doesn’t catch fire.

She crosses a rusting yellow bridge
to work with heat, color and gravity:

just another mortal
who battles with the gods.

She labors inside the cavern
of an old warehouse.

Ignores the humidity,
carcasses of broken tractors,
and rot rising from the river.

She shuffles like a boxer
upon the dust
and diesel.

Pulls apart the rotating glass
with metal tongs;

forms petals
over the steady breath
of a blowtorch.

Colors them with cobalt,
selenium, iron, copper
and other oxides.

She loves innovation —
the salt and dripping sweat of it.

She beholds her
complex creation
made from limestone, soda ash
and simple sand.

She wears gloves
to keep the skin
from burning off of her fingers.

And, in the cup
of her hands
a brilliant, brittle bouquet

of glass flowers.