Dorothy Ball



the effort isn't available to anyone, nor ought it be
—Richard Serra

We held the sculpture
             like an army holds a castle
                          under siege.

I have just caught a moth
             under a demitasse on the table.

Lipsticked and heeled
             we ticked away from the crowd
             through its rusted arcs,
                          part canyon, part propeller,
a bit swoony inside its weight, height
             running hands (out of sight
                          of the guards) over the surface

             the one on the patio stays warm
for hours—you can feel the heat
             just radiating off

and arrived at the spiral's
                          torqued off plumb,
big, bright, open to the ceiling.

             they built a moving wall
                          into the museum so it
could be hauled in by crane

While we were there,
             no one would enter the space—
                          peeking into the steel clearing
             then turning to slip back through
its darker corridors—and we
             fluttery with wine
             felt so powerful: conquerors.

The moth doesn't feel this way.
Though the cup is translucent
             probably glowing like the inside
                          of an egg, I can hear the whisper
             of her panic against the clay
when I slip a card under
             to carry her to the door, I will feel it
and when she's gone,
             the brown powder of her alarm
                          will coat the cup like a glaze.

Dorothy Ball is an editor at Princeton Architectural Press.

Issue 2

More in this issue


Connect With Us

Join eNews

Contact Us

Follow Us



Poetry Center Online

On Demand Literary Recordings