Date:         Mon, 1 Jun 1998 11:59:41 -0500
From: Phanny <corbett@AXA.SLU.EDU>
Subject:      SUB: CONTEST: Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis

The glass was the color of skim milk
Opal-white.  A touch of blue.
I asked her how she got that color.
With a smile she said
        Fresh bone ash in the batch.

She glistened, arms straining,
Ash and powder and grime
Lines on her face
Fire from the glory hole
        Reflected in her sweat

I watched her at the bench
Slowly rotating the pipe
Squeezing the wet paper
Shaping the shoulders
        Working the long neck

And wondered what it would be like
To feel her supple hands
On my bare skin
Squeezing.  Shaping.  Moving.
        Her soft mouth covering mine.

She gathered new glass over old,
Twisting the molten honey
Rounding the form until
It was ready.
        Lips closed tight on the pipe.

That night, in the moonlit shadows
Of her room, we met
Her hands white-hot. Firm.
Skilled.  Knowing.  Touching.
        We two merging into one.

Her eyes in the darkness,
Smiling at me. Pulling me close.
Her mouth.  Her teeth.  Her teeth.
On my neck.  In my neck.
        Oh god, god, in my neck.

                ***

He watched her work the glass
And asked about the color.
Opal-white.  A touch of blue.
With a smile she said,
        Fresh bone-ash in the batch.