Thistle Tongue
Gel Transfer, clay, twine, soil, text
Siena Hart
2020
Install view at House Conspiracy - Selected Works
I stood in a vast space that spoke in a language I almost knew
Yellow brittle grasses and soft black earth
Her stomach unfolding, a too-vast blooming
A thread, held between the teeth
Thistle tongue, thistle tongue
I heard the sound of creaking bones, of humming seed tips, of the worms beneath
A crypt
A chrysalis
A cove
A chrysalis
A cove
Gossamer spit
A swelling of the tongue
A fatal, vital, catalysis
Feeds the ripening seed
That burns the skin where the flowers push forth
A point where annihilation and exaltation collide into softness like falling
Forward, under, through