There are bees in Turkey laying their eggs in beds of petals miniature gold black Kahlos and O’Keeffes with pill
bottle eyes and a lion’s mane, solitary sculptors setting layers pink, crimson, purple, and blue, fused together with nectar
and dirt, the kind of architects who make a structure elegant and sound. Pity the progeny in these Joseph’s coat cradles born without sight
and the mothers they won’t meet, initiators into this little guild. I haven’t made a work to die upon yet. Are these savants content to live
for their finished craft? Surely their sacrifice is sanctified like Gospel authors writing revelations before their martyrdoms. Or not. Some art and artisans
never rise to icons and masters. Are they no less glorious? Consider the weaver forging a house of grass. A survival act. There must be a masterpiece in that.
Jonathan Rowe is a writer and copyeditor raised between Boston, Massachusetts, and Johannesburg, South Africa. His work is published or forthcoming in The Curator, Boston Art Review, “Good Cop/Bad Cop: An Anthology” by FlowerSong Press, and elsewhere. You can learn more about his work at jonathanrowewrites.com or on Twitter @jwrowe93.