Unearthing the Sky

Speculative Friction

by Claire Bateman

“Unearthing the Sky”

It was filthy, of course,

with red clay streaks and embedded loam,

as well as boulder-scored, chipped,

and even fractured in places—

a great big glorious suffering thing

further damaged by the very means of its rescue,

the violence of pulleys and clamps.

Areas dredged from underwater

were warped and bowed

where detonation had been necessary

to dislodge them.

 

But there it was for everyone to behold.

Toddlers wearing tiny government-issued hard hats

were told, Look, honey, it’s the sky!

Older children were bussed on field trips to the dig site

where yellow tape kept them from the rim

so that the sign could continue to announce,

DROWNINGS AT THIS SITE: 0.

Round-the-clock floodlights discouraged those

who might have attempted to make their mark

on the sky’s broken body—

graffiti artists and would-be inscribers of the Ten Commandments,

corporate representatives and long-distance pissers—

as well as those who longed to plunge into it—

scuba divers, suicides, mystics, and lovers.

 

Everything was so lit-up, in fact,

that the sky would have been glad

of some darkness,

but it was not yet well enough

to generate night and other weathers.

It needed years of repair work

with everything from lasers to sandpaper,

tiny camel’s-hair brushes to welding torches

as millions of stitches hand-sewn

with micro-suturing needles

were sent zigzagging across the surface

to eventually either dissolve

or be severed by army ants

genetically engineered to find them tasty.

The surgeons injected implants

of liquid mercury, black diamond plasma,

and other substances whose identities

they were not at liberty to disclose.

 

But at last, the sky was ready.

After all it had been through,

was it still the sky it had once been?

Not precisely, but were not the people

historically damaged as well—

and wasn’t there the matter of loyalty?

 

So the various bolts, pegs, and screws

were removed, releasing the sky

into its own silence.

Everyone watched as it rose,

a little shaky at first, but soon,

nearly as translucent, dizzying,

dimensionless, disturbing, etc.,

as they’d anticipated.

 

When asked why she wept,

one woman could say only,

For something so heavy, it seemed

almost painfully light.

From Coronology (Etruscan Press, 2010) © by Claire Bateman.  First published in New Ohio Review.

GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—3/28/11— “Most writers write only books they have read, and most readers read only books they would write. Wisdom reads what it would not write, genius writes what it has not read.” From Listings, by H.L. Hix