Jillian Blackwell
A New Cup and Saucer
I heard voices in the door-gust as I opened the door. I have had my fingers curled in longing for the curl of a teacup handle, thin and swift as the lick of a snake tongue. Last night, you were lifting the top of my head off and I had licked a Mondrian landscape into the corners of my mouth all pink in the in-betweens There was a sunset in my belly. But I am not made of flowers. Flowers are not very often made of me. I am a knot not not not not here nor there Eye raised up, a treetop exploded against the sky The sun slit under my eyelids, I must have been there— in the pocket the humid air made around my body.
Jillian Blackwell is both a poet and a ceramic artist who hails from Texas. She recently graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, where she was a member of the spoken word collective, The Excelano Project. Jillian is generally in love with art, from words to cups to rooms filled with dirt.
