Page 24 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #5

15
blind as ever to the simple rules of quarrying.
by Matt Pasca
Schist
The quarry’s derelict
belly blistered with sledge-
hammer sweat, forsaken
by dozers and TNT. Blanched
clay broke under my ten-year-old
feet, having outgrown another pair, heart
another of father’s errant slogs for buried prisms. Hunched,
I swung metal to stone—a Tolkien goblin slaving for diamonds,
those glassy Herkimer facets specked with cinder and promise
I’d felt in silicate drawers
of found gleaming. My father
languished under stems of slaughtered oak, his rowdy narcissus
eyes, cinnabar cheeks etched with doubt, rucksack empty.
Another day’s miscarriage. Another fool’s hunt beyond lush
woods with a crystal wife
and tourmaline sons who waned
on boulders, begging light from his bloodshot body.
Another spurning of shade for bare, high noon want,