Paintings, Sculptures

Katie Finn Hurst

All these glass shards, jagged as devotion:

The mosaics laid to paint cathedrals 

Are a cult of fragments, torn emotions From

the chests of men, never deceitful Like the

mouth; hands holding brushes, visions Of

apples being brought to eager lips. 

The artist cries for their hearts, decisions Of

creation turn feeling to stone, in this Way,

Rodin, with your deft and blessed hands

Ephemeral loss persists, and it is 

Torn from my breast like a wild thing,

strands Of wet religion pull from our kisses. 

Broken glass cuts, and brazen hands start to bleed,

Burgundy wine pours; passion leaves us freed.