Passover
by Mary Rose O'Reilley
"Art is what remains when the pot is broken."-Chinese proverb
I know we are bound to the earth,and the cracked heart, old terra cotta,surrenders to vine.
Listen-I've seen wind stir the hair of the dead at Belsen,growing like art from the lacing grass;
what is terrible, even, rises. The ruined pot dreams of ignition,each molecule coddles its flame.
Enough alphabet for a torah sits on the tongue. And all shards from the winds' end gather again.
I know we are bound to the earth by desire's green thread or the milk snake's slippery pass.
Hepatica splits now from its leaf-wing. Out of the vessel's wreck,inwardness forms on the air and that ghost tenderly enters the soul of some mortal thing.