September 8, 2014 | Occasus | Issue 4 | Poetry

Mosaic

It is certainly in pieces,
but whether the shimmer
from the little shards of green glass
casts a dazzling gleam
on the pieces of purple
remains to be seen. I think
more likely they are isolated
dots of light, small towns on
a map of the countryside or
little specks seen from space
with the vast acres of darkness
in between to keep the glass
from cutting deep into the blues
or pinks. Like grout. The grout
a kind of shell for each little
piece of jagged, shining glass
like the repulsion field of
atom that keeps them from ever
touching, despite the apparent
solidity of the Laurentian Shield.
Painting with glass leaves your fingers
bloody, since the colours won’t mix
on the pallet. White, brown, yellow,
black stay separate no matter how hard
you push them together on the canvas.
A small corner on the pallet is reserved for
the red and, as it stands, the impurities of the
white flow in this direction. The red
also serves as a handy receptacle for the
drops of blood that come from painting
with glass. You may call this piece
a mosaic, and standing at a distance
you will not see each shard pushing to
crowd out the other, melting away the
colour opposition, but instead the broken glass
will even seem to come together
– if you’re standing  far enough away –
and, yes, the little shards of purple and green
will even start to cast a favourable light
 in each other’s direction.

EVAN PEBESMA is in the fourth year of his Honors Specialization in English Literature. He has published works in Feathertale and Huron College's Grub Street.