2,800 Degrees Fahrenheit

The beauty and art of recovery from alcoholism

Guess I’ll melt my bones
and tendons in the fire;
smoking, hour after hour,
down to calcium
and silhouette of sin.
Where once the finish line
of arrogance and ego
became humility and,
so traceable on the parchment paper,
hummed,
over and over.
The echo.
The fumes.
The hops.
The brine.
The grain.
The cork.
The glass.
Bottles are shifting
and brought ready to break.
I can hear them,
cracking in the furnace,
the kiln.
Melting into a new form,
a bending pliable mold.
I’ll twist the rod,
you’ll blow in the tube.
Chihuly will be jealous.
Competing art shows
coming on soon.