The Amethyst

Your eager blade cracked through me, and I fractured 
in the sun’s commerce; before, there
was the crushing comfort of my velvet habitat, 
the warm scent of earth feathering inside itself.

And not knowing time, I chaliced it,
blue-sluiced, molecule by molecule,
to morpheme into what you see now—a body

schismed by a strange order—
the pitted, fractalled heart, these cold, cloistered bones, 
planulae for a tongue, blading the light. 

Experience has taught me: heat and pressure
kill independent thought, but still the voice
endures, multisyllabic and crystalline, though
it will only speak in one color; predictable,
like a womb—
I find myself for sale everywhere.

And I am told that humans desire 
to possess history almost as much
as they desire possession of riches: For
both purposes, the Greeks cut 
goblets from my hips
to stave their addiction—
the depths of the seas, the violet swallows.

Do you think you can subordinate me to
your energetic needs when you haven’t 
understood the praise of your own poisons?

Still, I recall the taste of ancient wine
slicing in my teeth—
dark and syrupy with manure, blood,
and resin. Nothing that could kill your modern cravings;
its meaning has slipped your vessel.

But I’m hard, and equal to it;
and perhaps that is your saving grace:
If an enemy steals into the home,
grab hold of me and strike.