Molded
Sea, see, see through,
Through, though, throw
a gray lump to a wheel,
two gentle hands caress the mass,
wet clay splatters up my arms,
a galaxy of gray on pink skin
With care, shape is given,
any shape,
curvy, wide, flat, straight,
gay, queer, fat, skinny
with love, life is given
a body built
by a lover’s skill
With a craftsman's embrace
if I were made of clay,
would I be happy?
would I be able to shape my body
with the care it needs?
would it be my shape,
or the shape the world wants?
if I press a hand to my belly,
fat squishes between my fingers like damp clay.
when I pull it away,
it falls back into place,
moveable but unchangeable.
Clay is useful only after it’s burned
When it’s no longer malleable,
When it’s a cup to drink from,
a beautiful piece to admire,
a bowl to hold.
I’m not clay.
I’m art.