When the master artisans melted
the pale sands of Kuralu’s beaches
to make glass goblets for a feast
in the month of candles, they failed
to realize what ancient seas
had made fine white grains
of a primordial city’s temples
and monuments. They ignored
warnings from shrieking gulls
and paid no heed to ghost ships
crowding a storm-dark horizon,
only forced their workers to dig
faster, faster, until the tempest broke
and they hurried to shelter.
One furnace exploded, showering
apprentices with globs of molten
glass and shards of stone. But
three dead seemed a small price
to pay for fulfilling a commission
from the great prince. Two more
died, flogged for incompetence
by a panicked master, and then
plague arrived with weeping sores
and fevers so high the afflicted
screamed of devils dancing
at the ends of their beds, cried
for their mothers in tongues
no living soul had spoken
in a thousand years. One by one
the masters died, until only three
remained to complete the goblets,
only three to bury the dead.
They melted sand, added mixtures
to tint it red as blood, toasted
the prince’s health with hands
stippled by burns. Later,
at the feast, reckless power
celebrated the dead artisans’ work
with spiced wines and heady liqueurs,
and only the prince looked
into the depths of his goblet
and saw a skull peer back at him
with blackened orbits full of glee.
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In the past quarter-century, Jennifer Crow‘s work has appeared in many print and electronic venues, including Uncanny, Analog, and many anthologies. Her most recent publication is a chapbook, Take Up Your Skin, which includes work from her Patreon as well as new material. It can be found in Kindle version on Amazon, or at www.patreon.com/poetrycrow. A Rhysling Award winner in 2023 for her poem “Harold and the Blood-Red Crayon,” she will have work in upcoming issues of Penumbric and Asimov’s Science Fiction as well as her poem in Kaleidotrope. Those who’d like to know more about her writing can catch up with her on Bluesky: @writerjencrow.bsky.social. | |