Mould it from glass thick as its shape
will allow. Green as ocean fathoms,
or a gas-mask’s insect eye.
Force through the narrow neck –
like stuffing a gizzard –
culled discards – nail-clippings, hair,
a prickle of iron thorns, a leather heart
bristling with pins; the bones of a robin.
Trickle in from the night-staled pot
water you pissed in the small, dark hours.
Add crystals of sulphur, the stench of spite.
Stop the mouth with wax.
Don’t leave a pinhole. Time was, householders
would sneak one under the floorboards,
into the crook of a chimney. Rare
to find one with the seal still virgin.
Keep yours intact. There’s trouble enough.