Splinters (down the throat of the sculptor)- Basilike Pappa

Fell down the rabbit hole this morning at Silent Hour. If you are not reading Basilike Pappa, you should be

Silent Hour

Is there anything you’re not great at?

Once someone told you you’ve got a hand

for drawing; you thought they meant conclusions.

Once someone told you you had a voice for singing;

you misheard, thought they said stinging.

Once someone told you…

there was always someone telling you something

and when there wasn’t, you’d make up the words.

The words became your chisel,

your penknife sharp;

you dedicated yourself to the art

of carving me into your preconceptions.

Carve me into vine leaves, mountain slopes, figs

wide open bleeding

and teach me to sing a song to rhyme your victory dance around me

(once someone told you you were good at dancing).

Carve, rough-cast and cast aside

those parts of me you don’t care for

and go on

chopping and singing, stinging and piquing.

Carve and cut and salt and smoke me

put me on a platter, eat me

(yes…

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