Vox Populi
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature with over 20,000 daily subscribers and over 8,000 archived posts.
José Alcantara: Countertop
I run my hand along the surface and feel a smoothness like volcanic glass. The granite comes all the way from India, but when I look closely, I see nebulae. I see galaxies. I see little black suns orbited by little black planets, and on the planets, deep black holes, dug by broken black bodies. And I see the black bodies heaving black stones, and the stones burnished in black blood, and buffed by black bone to the smoothness of volcanic glass. And on the counter I lay bread, apples, cheese, green olives, and those little swords we use to stab the olives, so we can lift them to our mouths without dirtying our hands. -- Copyright 2020 José Alcantara First appeared in Making Mirrors: Writing/Righting by and for Refugees
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Well done, Tony. Excellent images and perfect last line.
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Thanks, Eric. I guess you survived another hurricane.
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Wow! Yes. This one hit me hard. Thank you
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Made me swallow hard.
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