Manifesto in Porcelain

(Author’s note: this is written about, and contains very minor spoilers about, Quill & Still by Aaron Sofaer)

In Kibosh, democracy seeps
tank to tap—
no anthem air nor archway glare—
just seat-shaped petition:
porcelain plebiscite echoing in the bowl.
Not a throne set above,
not a subject consigned below.
Soft lid closing chaos;
tally wiped out in whirlpool spin;
old debts dissolved
as swirl shushes balance sheets—
history wiped down
by steady hands and elbow grease.

A plaque might as well glint sly advice:
“Relieve and believe,” implied by every fixture—
etched with wink, not warning.
No one blushes at ritual so routine;
here shame is rinsed plain as rainwater.

Tiles underfoot tessellate city maps:
grout-lines redrawn by wishbone pipes,
every step tracing circuits from waste to wonder.
Stone veins pulse deeper than any parade route—
that quiet trickle which toppled dynasties
now greets as burble in the bend.

Rinse-cycles murmur municipal code
in dialects lost on kings;
a parliament of plumbing
arguing softly below your knees.
Rumours loop through runoff—
justice soldered where copper kisses curve;
here equity isn’t theory but thread
drawn bright through every valve.

Accessible levers glint by every seat,
design on display in the gentle descent
of lids that never slam—
Even here mercy chafes before it soothes:
first-time fidget giving way to luxury’s hug
as the seat fits every shape that claims it.

Above each tank, an unwritten blessing hovers:
“May your burdens be lighter than your doubts”—
no inscription needed; every flush enacts the faith
that relief should leave something softer behind.

Hesitation tangles ankles before siphon sighs them gone;
blueprint outweighs border at every threshold—
Each stall wide for rolling wheels or wandering heels,
no guard posted but decency standing easy watch;
who sits? Anyone weary enough.

Self-washing charms whirl underfoot—
invisible stewards crowned in spellwork—
floors glisten not from labour but design.
Some claim revolutions spark from slogans;
here they bubble up where gasket kisses grout,
no gilded lavatories—just honest cubicles
marching shoulder-to-shoulder,
graffiti murmuring:
even Artemis sometimes squats among mortals.

Flushes toll soft benedictions:
mercy modulated by mains pressure,
pipes crooning “shed what you carried.”
Doors open not with flourish
but a click clean as forgiveness—
privacy brief as weather but exile unknown.

If utopia anchors anywhere enduring, it burrows low—
between tile seam and tendon’s reach,
where compassion curls down drains
and returns agleam on porcelain lips.
Dignity gets re-piped dawn after dawn
in ceramic couplets;
lines spiral from trap-bend to vent-stack,
decency soldered where most never bother looking—
yet all must pass through.