Self-contained The sensation of containing myself I made electric pottery for hours one night A wheel emptied and refilled itself with muddy intentions I shaped a handle Ornate. I held a shard of a face Through cracks I talked with unformed clay. I made vessels for the things I couldnt say and resented their resonance and resented what they echoed. A broken kiln waited for us (I say us but I approached the open mouth barely holding together) Id never felt so alone in so many pieces. Wet clay spilled onto my feet. I spilled onto the edges, hollow but for the thumbprints of conversation the imprint of a serendipitous fist ensured Id never flow over for all the stones I drop down my throat and, remembering where the water once was, remembering the shape of being filled I looked for a hole to talk through. I allowed myself nothing. Contained amidst so much sediment, held powder between my fingers, slipped through the attention of every hand, eyeing a deluge through earthen mists, dry as the shore. Once I built a sandcastle. Once I built a moat. Once I lowered a bridge to invaders because Id kept every doorway unformed for knocking on such dense entries is soundproof. In this creation story man was never made. The clay sought life one day and had no mind for pottery. My hands are full and self-contained in their inauspicious lines, depleted veins, their rivers are shallow. There is earth caked on them. There is ground where lightning struck. Electricity grown stagnant and in this pottery, for all the paint and all the glaze, glass fixed my feet to an empty space. In this creation story I remained.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Dec 2014 06:06:37 +0000
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