At first the alcohol-heavy finish pooled or
Ran down the wood, dried like corners of sagged flesh.
When wet, some portion of it wouldn’t spread,
Would remain partial and uneven.
He imagined cloth made of spun metal fibers
Able to smooth the blotched and crystallized surfaces,
Or brushes and solvents that would produce chromatic ripples
The grain in his old chest-of-drawers had.
He made up a way working with the sun and an electric fan.
It needed less finish, a heavier stroke.
He would apply two coats, loved the exotic
High grit numbers — like 600 — of wet sandpaper
He used to treat the initial layer,
And hand-rubbed finish down the doweled legs
Of ones that needed it. Sometimes on a foot’s inside half
He’d leave a swath uncoated, as if missed or unnecessary.
He thought of the family that might buy the piece, of their girl on
A weekend afternoon, belly to their carpet,
Her discovery dry, smooth, a sand colored mark in the glaze.
She might forget it, or years later — it might be
Out the car window a thickness of sea dunes,
Not announcing itself, falling into place.
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- “Whose Bones Are These, Seahorse?”: A Review of Sabrina Orah Mark’s Wild Milk - October 10, 2018